A Bastard's Creed
by Kenwaydynasty
Summary: If a person were to receive wisdom beyond their years from voices through the ages, would they try to save the world, rule it or both? More importantly could they even accomplish that? In a world where good intentions can have bad results and where the opposite can happen, what is really true and what is really permitted?
1. Chapter 1: The Condemned

Prologue: The Condemned

The sun beat down mercilessly on the Boneway as the traveller made the journey across the last few miles with the deliberation of somebody who was aware that He was possibly marching to His death. All it had taken was an execution; well an execution and a kidnapping which caused it and soon the words came true as they always did,

"Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted."

A dynasty three centuries old, which had survived Rebellions, invasions, Civil wars and calamities wiped out in less than a year by armies led by an Old Man, a feeble lord, a Second Son and an Oaf. That's permanence for you. He had heard about the Sack of the Capital just before He left and a part of him knew that if he did die, it would be a compensation that He would not find out exactly what they did to the Children.

"Stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent"

The voice reminded Him and He could not help but imagine that this was a kill He would enjoy; to sink His blade into the Lion lord's heart and to reveal to Him in His dying moments that all His power could not keep him alive, that it was nothing more than an illusion, easily dispersed as the sun cuts through the morning mist. He knew that people in His line of work were not supposed to find any joy in their actions, but if one of the greatest mentors could admit to such desires so could he, to an extent. The name would be listed but for now, to business.

He shook his head slightly to get rid of the thoughts swarming around His head like flies around a corpse and tightened the hold on His reins. There was work to do. He took a gulp from His water skin, enjoying the relief provided by cold spring water inside while silently reminding himself to conserve the limited supply. He loosened the sword in its scabbard, same for the long knife. He rechecked the pouch holding the darts and flasks and proceeded with the rest; the spear was strapped to the saddle, too long to be carried on His back and the shield on his back was hidden by a cloak to prevent the heated metal from burning him and blackened to prevent its glint from giving Him away. As he finished the last of His checking it came in sight, the Tower of Joy.

His brother had been a true Dornishman, full of Pride and with the same easy wit which the Rest of the Seven Kingdoms considered insufferable. He, on the other hand, was the bastard Son and did not have the freedom for such easy graces. True, he was treated better, but with it came the expectation that He would make something of Himself to account for his "good luck". Forsaking all that for a Creed was not something that Lord Allyrion or the rest of His family would consider as such.

"Everything is Permitted"

The voice reminded Him and He did take responsibility for His actions, both good and bad. The banishment was something He could live with but now that He was so close to Home, the temptation to just walk away was almost overwhelming. He could almost hear His brother japing about how badly the tower was named, judging from the screams emanating from within its walls. He both wished for and against that His brother had matured beyond that. Godsgrace could not afford a Jester, fool or weakling for a lord but He also personally did not like the idea of His brother losing Himself to intrigue. He took out His Myrish eye and peered through it.

"Hide in Plain Sight"

This came off as a warning and He could see why. The three Kingsguard at the foot of the walkway was bad, the archers were even worse. He could have held his own against a moderate member of the guard like Darry (who at that moment was feeding crows beside the Ruby Ford) but He would be a fool to try against the likes of Dayne. Dawn was distinctive, even from a distance and He had no intention of feeling its touch. Hightower was strong, yes, but ageing and the long-repressed bias against Reach men was at play but He could not risk it, especially since there was another one there. The White Bat was marginally better than Darry, and he also had numbers on His side.

Still, in the end; they were men and He could have baited them away from each other so that He could subdue them before the Wolf Lord appeared and blood flowed. It was just his luck that the presence of archers had to ruin it all. He counted four, not enough to fend an army off but more than enough to pepper Him with holes should he try to ride straight ahead and bait the knights. They had to die, but not just yet. He entered a cave which He had explored back in previous journeys and unhitched his horse. He did not light a fire but did relieve himself, he could not afford to shit himself and give himself away by the stink the next day. So he waited.

The sun passed its journey almost maddeningly slowly against the sky as the shadows lengthened and the creatures of the night stirred. The woman had stopped screaming but now, the sudden silence was driving him mad. If she died, his country would be in flames. The Kingsguard seemed to take alternate four-hour shifts outside, and four inside in a day. The remaining hours they slept and there were always two on duty at a time, each having had only two hours of duty before receiving the new partner, with none ever truly exhausted. It was quite a clever plan.

The archers though, they could not coordinate as well. Always, there were two on duty, with two staggered shifts a night and two staggered shifts during the day, all of six hours each. When dusk came, that would be his best opportunity. One archer would be exhausted and the other would be blinded after being used to the bright sun. It was time to act.

The waterskin had become empty a while back, but the cold night air had left small droplets of water trickling on the walls, ready to be collected. It was not enough to refill it but still better than going thirsty. He strung his bow, Dornish Yew with a horn backing and arrows armed with a bodkin or barbed arrowhead. The blade honed and ready and his darts recoated. At the end the sword, forged by an orphan who had some skill with the ways of the Rhoynar and blacked to avoid catching the light, it lay hidden inside his padded scabbard.

He climbed down and peered at the targets. He only had a few minutes till the shift changed. The sun had mostly set but the silhouette of the tower showed up quite clearly. He was half a shadow here with his Dun robes but the Kingsguard would not fail to notice the archer fall. He had to get to the other side. He bridled his horse and put in a special tool of his, and then bid it an almost tearful farewell. After tonight, the horse would not look at him; much less allow him to ride. Then he slapped it on the rump and watched it trot away.

On its back was a quite convincing mannequin wearing a loyalist coat of armour with arrows sticking out of the back. The sight alone was enough to get their attention, but what happened next stunned them. As a primitive fuse finished ticking the body burst into flames and the horse stampeded as it tried to escape from its fiery passenger. The Kingsguards were forced to step forward and help the poor beast as it tried to run them over. He looked away before it happened, partly because he could not bear to see what had happened to his loyal companion, but also because every single person who was staring at the sight was now effectively night blind.

As he reached the base, he hid in its shadow and allowed his breathing to become controlled. As he looked up; there could not have been a better chance than this. One of the archers had his back to him, almost right above him with his back begging for an arrow.

It received the wish, as the archer keeled over, preceded by a silent whoosh, the sound of an arrow passing through chainmail and a soft grunt as the air was knocked out of him and he fell, right on top of the assassin. That was far noisier.

The Horse's screams had muffled most of it, but even the most inept of archers would notice if their fellow guard would have vanished without a trace. He had to act _quickly_. He climbed carefully, making sure that he didn't knock aside any loose masonry or even worse, show up next to a window. A Dornishman heavily armed at that, entering a holdfast which held the She-wolf would not be taken well.

He reached the top more or less the same time the screaming had died away and about the time that the second archer noticed that he was all alone on the roof, remembered the sound of something falling a few minutes ago and putting two-and-two together started looking over the edge. He received a knife in the neck for his troubles as the Assassin finally reached the top of the crenellations. He twisted the blade and pulled back, choking the archer on his own blood. The fates finally seemed to be smiling on him as he pulled himself up to the roof.

 _Scratch that,_ fate was a merciless bitch intent on tormenting him. Taking out two unsuspecting dazed archers was difficult enough given these situations, taking out two with their bows lined at him would be impossible, in those same circumstances.

He pulled up his shield just about the same time as they released. The first arrow had actually managed to penetrate through his shield, hammered steel coated with bronze, though not completely. _'Dornish Yew_ ' he thought vaguely, as the second arrow deflected off the edge.

He charged the first archer while throwing a dart at the second archer to distract him. Pulling up his long knife, he feinted a strike, and the archer in front reflexively used his own dagger to counter as expected. Instead of steel striking steel, the archer was met with a face full of hammered steel, knocking out a few teeth and leaving him dazed. He finished the job with a strike to the heart. He had no chance for respite as at that moment an arrow lodged itself firmly in his knee. Due to the robes, it would have been difficult to tell what part was armoured and what was not but a sure bet would have been the back of the knee. The second archer, rather than rushing in to help his comrade had decided to take his chances at longer range and loosed an arrow. The gamble paid off and the emboldened archer pulled out his knife to finish the job. _Stupid,_ the Assassin thought about the both of them as he tried to pull the arrow out. The archer tried to stab him only to be met by the hidden lamellar and gambeson and instead received a belly-full of cold steel as the Assassin turned around and struck him with the flat of his hand. With some vindication, the Assassin twisted and pulled his hand free and let the archer fall to the ground.

He had managed to pull the arrow free and treated the leg but the damage was done. He could not put much weight on it without a brace and he might lose it without stitches. There would be time for that later. For now; there were three white cloaks inside who had to be reminded that if they decided to put honour before sense, they would be dead men.


	2. Chapter 2: The Loyal Knight

Prologue: The Loyal Knight

The room was stifling hot even at dusk, but it was still preferable compared to being baked outside during the day. At night, however; the heat was all but forgotten as they would shiver beneath their thickest cloaks as the night winds blew up dust devils which seemed intent to tear the tower by its roots. As Oswell had pointed out, their wails seemed macabrely at place with the woman's screams and suggested that they should think about renaming it to the tower of wails. However, the humour was hard to appreciate as the incessant wailing made it near impossible for him to sleep causing him to toss and turn and fee his errant thoughts and reminiscences wander away no matter how much he tried to reel them in. For some reason, he remembered that the two outside would be the only other brothers he would have any more. Well, there was Jaime but the Lord Commander had threatened to split him in half if he ever saw him again. Giving up the attempt at sleep as a lost cause he allowed his thoughts free reign.

If his young squire had asked him 10 years ago about a knight's most important and honourable duties, he would have answered without hesitation that it was to defend the weak and administer justice. That was 10 years ago, and now he had seen much of how the world works, far too much. The promising squire's hands were now drenched in King's blood, the same King whose life he had sworn to protect. There was the expected amount of curses to the Kingslayer's name but he could not help but wonder; how much of it was due to the knowledge that a green boy of sixteen had the courage to do what the so-called honourable knights never could. Not that such thought would ever be uttered in the presence of the Lord Commander. When they received the news, he was still ashamed to recall the sense of relief at hearing about the bastard's death, in whose protection he had broken every other single vow he made as a knight.

They still called him "the Sword of the Morning" but he could not help but feel that in all its history, Dawn had never had a wielder as undeserving as him. Even if the warrior himself was to descend from the heavens and ensure his survival, the Gods would not be able to save him from his brother's wrath. He instinctively moved his hand to the grip as he realized that this was probably the last time he would ever be able to use it. He had spent years being loyal to a king unfit to clean the throne, much less sit on it. He sat and watched at his king tortured and slaughtered entire families, regardless of guilt. Stood by and did nothing as innocents were butchered and burned. Brandon and Rickard Stark were not the first, only the first to be noticed. His loyalty had worn away gradually to the point where He started to worry whether he ever talked in his sleep and whether the Spider ever overheard him about how much he wanted to shove Dawn through the royal back. The only reason He ever stayed, partly due to his precious honour and mostly to prevent the King's wrath on his own family was due to Rhaegar.

He had been friends with the Crown Prince long before the madness was apparent in his royal father. Had he known, he would never have taken the white. Though none of the white brothers would ever say it out loud, the only hope that they had was of the inevitable end of the Mad King, and the succession of his son who would soon wash away the filth of his father's reign. He had been far more loyal to the son rather than the father. Even after the tourney of Harrenhal and Lyanna _fucking_ Stark had happened, he had remained loyal. In the end, his loyalty had paid off and the fruits were very sour indeed; 10,000 of his countrymen dead or wounded, his sister possibly next, no future to speak of and everybody whom he felt actual loyalty to all dead in various brutal manners and now this.

He sighed and shifted his body, only to fall out of the small bed as he remembered that He was no longer at the White Sword Tower. While indoors, they were technically allowed six hours of rest and for visits to the Privy, feeding cleaning of armour and checking on the garrison and residents. However, none of them could bear having six hours of silent contemplation of their actions so the armour was always bright, the garrison was always alert and the women never lacked for anything except for freedom, the one thing which they wanted above all. Even with all this, sleep was difficult and so he wondered at times whether that it was more likely that they would kill each other off due to nerves before any enemy could ever find them. He got up and deliberately put his armour on, except for Dawn which never left his side even in bed after the start of the rebellion. He thought of sparring a bit in the courtyard but changed his mind as he saw how tired his brothers appeared.

The Lord Commander was past his prime but it wasn't till now that it really showed. It would not be obvious to a stranger, but the slight sagging of the shoulders, the not so straight bearing he now carried and the occasional sigh. Oswell looked a bit better, but only a bit.

"Lord Commander" he hailed him. "Ser Arthur, it's not your shift yet." The Lord Commander _did_ seem to a bit a bit slower now. "I know, but I could not sleep. I thought it would be better to stretch my legs a bit rather than get a few bedsores."

"I don't know what you Daynes are made of, but I would take a few bedsores to being baked in the sun any day of the week". That was Oswell of course, ever the jester "Just not both at the same time Whent, which is why I'm here." "Understandable, I can't imagine anybody getting much sleep last night with that wolf bitch howling." The Lord Commander didn't care for Lyanna Stark (or was it Lyanna Targaryen now?) much. He was the only one here who saw the Prince as that, just a Prince not a king. Had he been of royal blood he would have tried to slap the Prince around until he saw sense but instead, the Prince had them both. However, he knew that he had to keep the disdain hidden. He was still bound by honour and would not show much of it to the mother of the next heir to the throne.

"To be frank with you Lord Commander…" "Yes?" "Her Grace has suffered enough." The Lord Commander's face might as well have been made of granite. "State clearly what you mean Dayne." He noticed the 'Dayne' part well. The Lord Commander acted almost like a stern father at times. The only time he called them by their family names was when he showed his disappointment in them. Arthur steeled himself and continued, "You told me and my brothers Ser; that it was not to us to judge the king, only protect him. Well, Rhaegar never became king so it would not be wrong for me to say that he made some terrible decisions". "Be careful what you say next Ser, should I remind you that you are still a kingsguard."

' _Like that matters',_ he thought bitterly. After all, what was a kingsguard without a king? No, if he was going to die, he was not going to leave his thoughts unsaid. It might not be going to a confession, but unless he wanted them eating him up from the inside, he would let the bile out.

"After we received the news from the capital Ser, he acted no different from his father in the way he treated his wife. He knew what his actions would lead to and he did it anyway and to my shame, I did not stop him. Lyanna Stark has spent the last year in his presence and had to bear him a child. Her father and brother died in the most gruesome way possible and the very night she received this news Ser, he forced himself on her. I was the one who had to stand guard outside and it was Rhaella's bedchamber all over again."

The Lord Commander seemed to freeze in place and even Oswell knew better than to jape at the moment. He had never mentioned this to them but once he started, he could not stop himself. "Her father is dead Ser, so is her brother and she might be next soon. She doesn't need somebody who would keep telling her how this war was all her fault ser. The Stranger is already close by Ser, we don't have to push towards its arms."

The Lord Commander seemed to unfreeze at the end of that. He took a deep breath and uttered two words "Her grace."

 _What?_ "Ser?"

The Lord Commander looked at him as though he had suddenly become slow. "You are talking about the queen, Ser Arthur. Queen Lyanna Targaryen Do not forget to address her with the correct title. It's 'grace', not 'lady'."

Relief flooded through him as he realised that the White Bull didn't mean to gore him "Yes Ser." "Very well, seeing how you are so eager to move around, I stand relieved Ser Arthur. Take my place for the remainder of the shift and yours as well. Wake me I there are any problems." "Of course." The Lord Commander moved back to the shadow of the tower with an expression of relief not completely hidden from them.

Oswell grinned at him as he took his place, "You have to tell me how you do it, Dayne. You called the Lord Commander wrong to his face and he thanked you for it." "Blind luck. Blind, _stupid_ , luck." "So fortune favours the dumb, heh? That explains why I never have much luck." It was good to have company again. He would have continued the conversation but was interrupted by the strangest sight he ever saw.

A horse was coming, _from the South_ carrying what appeared to be a wounded rider in black armour. _Rhaegar_ was the first thought that entered his mind, but it left much more quickly as the rider caught on fire. The horse screamed and ran at them as they struggled to keep it from trampling them. Oswell would have tried to put the horse out of its misery, but Arthur managed to pull the rider off with some difficulty and the horse ran off as fast as it could.

He turned the still smoking body over and opened the charred visor and stared straight into a straw-filled sack. Oswell had inhaled a bit more of the smoke and was still coughing badly. "Who is it?" _A decoy_ "It's a puppet. We've been tricked." "What?" "Back to the tower, now!"

The air seemed to turn into treacle and his armour into lead as they made their way in. Gerold Hightower was lying on the pallet, seemingly peaceful and at rest but for the stab wound in his chest. He was at rest now, but whether it was peaceful could not be said. His blood boiled at the sight and he drew his sword, ready to cut down the assailant who did this to the captain. He entered the guardroom to find that all the guards were clustered around their last meal, slumped over the table; some still breathing but the rest, cold to the touch. _'Poison_ ' he realised and he had to suppress the feeling of dread. Skill in battle would be little use against a well-placed dart or wine cup. Even with his Dornish heritage, he still found it to be a foul way to kill.

There was no way that the person who did this would have entered the tower through the front entrance, so unless he dug his way in, he must have climbed in through the roof. That must mean that either the archers let him in, or could not stop him, either way, they were dead men. He climbed the stairs two at a time till he reached the roof, only to find it completely empty.

He started to look around when he was suddenly blinded by a cloud of smoke. There was a slight whisper then he felt something wrap around his leg and pull him down. As he looked down, he could see the outline of what appeared to be a rope with a metal end entangled with the leg. The shadow shifted again and this time took the form of a spear which went through his leg. He screamed in pain as the spear was removed and a hooded figure materialized from the shadows. The figure seemed to look at him for a moment before kneeling and picking up Dawn. That hurt more than the leg, to realize that he would be the sword who lost Dawn. The man (he appeared to be a man) looked at him again and murmured, "Do not worry, Dawn will return to the House of Dayne. As for you, for what it's worth, I am sorry."

As he said those words, Arthur felt a sense of relief that he hadn't felt in a long time and realized what that feeling was; he was now ready to die. "Very well, get it over with." The man looked confused, almost hesitant before suddenly changing his tone, almost to that of a soothing parent, "I am not going to kill you ser. That is for the Stag to decide. It was just my mission to stop you before your blind loyalty got more good men and women killed."

There were a hundred questions floating in his mind but he could ask only one, "What about them? The guards, the archers, what about the Lord Commander!? Did their lives not matter?" The figure above sighed, almost as though he was a mourner expressing his condolences, "Did their lives matter, yes. Was killing them necessary? Maybe not, but I could not take the risk. Do I wish it were otherwise? Yes." Before he could interrupt, the figure above continued "Gerold Hightower's death was not the plan. A sleeping dart or the same stuff in wine would have done the trick, but he was relieved early so I had to improvise. As for the guards, there was no way of carefully measuring the amount they would drink. Poison is a fickle thing, but I can tell you, that I do regret their deaths."

The door burst opened behind them as Oswell staggered through the door. For a moment, it seemed that there was still some hope, till he noticed how unconcerned the assailant looked. He looked at Oswell again and saw how badly pale his face looked.

 _The smoke, of course! He had planned it all along._ "Ser Oswell, unless you want to cough up your lungs I would suggest you stop exerting yourself," the stranger asked in a tone which would not have sounded out of place on a maester. Oswell replied by swinging his sword with the last of his strength. The stranger almost effortlessly caught his wrist and pushed him down to the ground, while bending his arm with enough force that a crack could be heard. He then threw Oswell across the roof with barely any noticeable effort causing him to land on that arm. This was followed by a dagger to the throat.

Oswell screamed as he clutched his broken arm while the man passed him a small flask of some chalky white liquid. The man pressed the dagger down slightly and they both knew what he was commanding him to do. Oswell drank it down reluctantly and was carried unconscious downstairs by the man almost as though he were a wounded brother in arms. "I'll return for you," he remarked almost carelessly just before he passed out of sight.

He returned a few minutes later, holding the same flask and Arthur drank it down gratefully and allowed unconsciousness to claim him.

* * *

He did not know how long he was asleep when he woke up again. His wound was bandaged and he was given a change of clothes. The serving people were still alive, seeing how they fed him and the still living guards and Oswell were next to him, apparently well cared for. Unfortunately, they were chained to the wall. "Could be worse, you know?" Oswell remarked. "At least we have chamber pots. That's more than you can say for most dungeons."

The man came to visit them after what seemed like a few hours, holding a small moving bundle in his arms. He had removed his hood and seemed to have the appearance of a Stony Dornishman. "Do you want to look at him?" he asked, almost as though he were talking to some old friends. Arthur and Oswell dared to look and saw a Stark child, without a hint of Targaryen in him. He was both elated and saddened, knowing that nobody would suspect the boy, but also realised that it was quite likely that nobody would believe his claim either.

"What are you planning to do to him?" that was the only question he could think of. "Keep him safe, prepare him if necessary." The man replied. "As for you, that's for the Wolf Lord to decide." It was funny in a way that mercy for them was to be thrown to the wolves. Hearing Oswell chuckle, he knew he heard it too.

As the man turned to leave, Oswell asked, "So what will you do now?" The man stopped before answering, "I'll wait."


	3. Chapter 3: The Lost Wolf Part 1

The Lost Wolf Part 1

He could not remember a time where he did not sweat. Every day seemed to be the hotter than the last and as they were so close, the sun seemed intent on trying to strike them down. To be fair, the same could be said for anybody north of the Red Mountains and his companions were no different. Quiet Howland Reed who rode by his side, saying little but seeing much, Willam Dustin grimacing with every step of his horse, a blood red stallion who looked just as irritated as he was, though the irritation was directed more at the flies rather than the heat. Dustin's good brother Mark Ryswell, soft-spoken, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull and Ethan Glover. The Southerners might write songs about the Seven who rode to rescue the lady from a tower but personally, he would prefer to never hear it as long as he lived.

They had kept a relentless pace, riding through the night at his orders; mostly in order to reach Lyanna as fast as they could, but a part of him wanted to keep as much distance from Robert and Tywin Lannister as humanly possible. When he closed his eyes at night, he could still see the mangled bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon, that's not counting what was left of poor Elia. Had the mountain been there that day, no force on earth could have stopped him from cutting the monster down.

"My Lord, we're here", murmured Howland quietly shaking from his heat-induced reverie. The crannogman's skill at stealth seemed to have passed down to his riding skills. At times, he would forget that he was even there. He looked up and saw it.

The tower of joy, there never had been a more wrongly named tower in his mind. The sun had already risen a while back and yet the courtyard seemed to be half hidden in shadows. They moved forwards, rather less certainly now; as though they expected that any minute angry Dornishmen would swarm out of the tower like ants.

What they didn't expect however was a kindly looking woman beckoning them forwards with not a hint of fear. Never one to refuse an invitation from a woman, Ryswell rode forwards with an expression on his face like a lost wanderer who just found a well and he went after the woman like a well-trained pony. They apparently had no choice as the woman led them down to what appeared to be the stables, whose only other occupant was a rather twitchy horse with a somewhat singed mane. Ryswell frowned at the horse, seeing the burns almost like an act of sacrilege but to his credit managed to hold his tongue.

"If you will wait for a while, my Lords," the woman beckoned them to an empty room with no decorations except for an intricately carved arch decorated with murder holes. As she turned to leave, she paused and continued "also, Lord Ryswell if you try to have your way with any of my fellow workers or myself, the Spider in King's Landing will have a replacement." The two clansmen grinned slightly at the look on Ryswell's face, but Eddard hated being reminded of anything related to King's Landing at the moment.

She returned a few minutes later and beckoned them underground to a locked room. She turned the key and as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the manacles chained to the walls and felt a sense of revulsion at the notion of how his sister had been treated. It was only for a while however as he noticed that the person sitting huddled on the floor was not his sister, but a knight of the kingsguard.

As he looked up, Eddard thought that he had never seen anyone with such a look of defeat in their eyes. "Lord Stark?" he managed to croak out. "Have you come to execute me?" He almost seemed pleased at the concept.

The idea of such a man reduced to being content to such a fate left him speechless. What horrors did they inflict on him to have left him so utterly broken? "Himself, Lord Eddard" the woman replied.

"What?" "You are wondering what could have driven a man to crave death. He did that to himself." "How did you know that? How could he have done that? Are you trying to say that he chained _himself_ up?"

She looked amused at his questions and made a face almost as though trying to decide which one to answer first "So many questions, well if I have to answer, Lord Stark you are easier to read than a book. If I spend just a day in your company, I would be able to tell exactly what you would do the rest of the day before you were done taking your morning shits. As for the rest, you above all should know what guilt does to a man. It's written all over your face and no, he did not tie himself up; he just refused to struggle after the first two days. I should know, I check the knots every day."

Ned flushed at the explanation. He had heard a few women with a tongue as crass as hers, but they had been camp followers, certainly nothing like the Septa in disguise in front of him. He could hear the rest sniggering behind him.

"Wait, what did you mean by guilt being written over my face?" "You misheard me. Or maybe I misspoke? The knowledge of what guilt does to a man is written over your face, not the guilt itself. After all, I am sure that you have nothing to feel guilty about. So you see, it was just a slip of the tongue." He knew better than to try to bandy words with her so he tried his tested method of direct bluntness. "Did you torture him?" "We didn't have to. As I said, he is quite accomplished at torturing himself."

The unasked question was answered as well, "Don't worry; we have no plans to kill him. That judgement is left for you. Now, let's meet the master, shall we? Oh, and you can only bring one friend with you." The tension in the air came back at that moment and any sudden movements would have resulted in bared blades. Sensing the tension, the woman knelt over a small table and picked up… a loaf of bread. Sprinkling some salt she ate it and offered it to the rest. "Shall we go then?"

In the end, it was Howland who went alongside him as he steeled himself for what he might see at the top of the tower. He expected the worst, to see Lyanna dead, ravaged, in a pool of blood like his dreams showed him but nothing like this. Lyanna was there, looking tired yes, but alive as she knelt over a board with carved stone pieces. On the other side was a hooded man leaning back, looking almost relaxed with the sudden arrival of two Northmen.

The man barely looked up as he moved a piece, an elephant. Lyanna frowned and moved a dragon with a look of triumph as she captured the elephant threatening her front, only to look in disbelief as a trebuchet felled her dragon followed by the light infantry ambushing her light horse. She retaliated with her heavy horse, only to be encircled by the heavy infantry and archers. It was over in a few moves. The man straightened and took a bite from the loaf offered before remarking, "You're getting better."

She smiled at that comment and for a moment he was taken back a year to the last time he remembered her smiling; when Lyanna had emptied a jug over Brandon's head, drenching him in wine. She looked at him and her expression changed, to pure terror. Of all the things that he had expected, this wasn't one.

He stepped forward tentatively but stopped when he saw that she looked ready to cry. He waited while Howland and the other man just waited quietly as though they had been carved from stone. She looked up before taking a deep breath and asking, "Why did you come for me?" It seemed that all expectations would prove to be false. "You're my sister Lya, how could I not?" "Even after I killed father and Brandon?"

He knew where that thought came from, but before he could try to defend her, she snarled, "If you say anything to the contrary Eddard Stark, I would know you for a liar!" He wisely shut up after that. "I know I might not have lit the fire or tied the cord, but their blood is on my hands. By the gods, Ned! Every night I remind myself of it. My hands are stained by their blood and with the blood of thousands. Elia, Aegon, Rhaenys, Denys, Elbert, Ethan, Kyle, Jeffory all dead because of me. I would not have bothered to rescue myself after this, so how could I expect you to do the same?"

That was the bitterest truth he had heard since the letter came from King's Landing. He had nothing else to say to that so that must have been why the next few words came out quite unintentionally, "Even Rhaegar?" There was a smile on her face again, but now it was twisted and bitter, "I heard that Robert caved his chest in at the Trident. For that deed alone, I might have wed him." The uneasiness came back to his mind as he pondered how such hatred could have formed in her mind and he had to let it out before it consumed him, "I suspected that, well you…". "Ran away? That I was not abducted and held against my will? Dear Ned, I am afraid that it was the worst of both."

He tried to stop her but she raised her hand and pushed through, "I was a fool. I didn't hate Robert, but I would have given my right arm rather than marry him. Rhaegar, he was everything that Robert wasn't. He visited Winterfell and I believed him, like a Southern maid. I actually believed when he told me that he would free me from my marriage and that he loved me. If I had to jump off this tower to change that day I would. We came here where he had his marriage annulled to Elia. I complained about being nothing more than a broodmare to Robert and I was too blind to see that 'my Prince' thought the same for his own wife. Father had tried to turn me into a mindless southern lady; I'd say that he succeeded." A bitter laugh and a twisted grin followed her words as she seemed to age before his eyes as she recounted her story.

"After the news came about Brandon, I pleaded with him to write to our fathers but he didn't care. When I heard about father he grew desperate and…" She paused as though steeling herself for what she had to say. "He told me that Father and the other great lords were plotting to overthrow his father and crown him. They would have traded one Mad King for another. He proved it that night. After that, he revealed the actual reason he wed me. He kept talking about a prophecy and of how he would save the world. When he left, I prayed that he would die and Robert answered that prayer."

Never in his life had Eddard felt more helpless to protect his family than after listening to Lyanna. He was ashamed to say that a part of him would always hate her for what her recklessness did to father and Brandon, but it would be overshadowed by his own guilt for not doing anything to prevent any of it. However, none of this mattered to him now, they were safe now and he would do his best to keep it that way.

"Come Lya, let's go home now." "No." Both of them spoke this time, their host and his sister.

Before he could ask anything Lyanna nodded to the man who then brought his arms forward to show Eddard the bundle which he was holding. He picked it up gingerly and poking through the cloth was the face of a tiny baby, a Stark baby based on the colouring. ' _Lyanna's child.'_ The realisation came to his mind of how this child was born and in shock, he nearly dropped it. He cursed and damned the Prince for the fate he put on the boy. ' _It was terrible enough being called a bastard. Did he have to be called a child born of rape as well?'_

"The child will be mine", he declared. The man shifted slightly as he opened a pouch and slid a gold dragon across the table. Lyanna caught it with a small smirk before replying, "I'm learning aren't I?" The man nodded silently with a half-smile. Eddard grew irritated at their half hidden conversation and how a stranger whose name he did not even know seemed closer to his sister than he did.

Sensing his confusion Lyanna took pity on him "You really are predictable Ned. I would explain how it is a bad idea but he can do it better." ' _He?'_ "Call me Sand, my lord." ' _Sand?'_ "The Martells, Yronwoods, Fowlers, Daynes and Allyrions may have important names in Dorne, but my name _is_ Dorne. You might as well get used to it since you seem intent on bringing a little snow to meet your fair wife."

At times he would forget that he was married but it wasn't till now that it made him feel like an idiot. The man smirked at the look of realisation before continuing, "To be honest with you Lord Stark, I believed that only Robert Baratheon would lose his wits at the sight of Targaryen children but it never occurred to me that you would condone the death of small children." The embarrassment was replaced with rage as he heard the man's words. He might not be Brandon but had it not been for guest right he would have drawn his blade out at the words. The man looked at him with a hint of derision before continuing.

"For somebody who has seen so much of the world, you have a maiden's heart. You are a true believer in the sacred customs of your people so such an act might seem impossible for you but regardless of whether you intend it, if you take the boy there back North as your own child, you would have made sure that he dies. He might call the place home, even learn to love it, but could you honestly think that he would be happy, or safe? I can tell you right now what is most likely to happen. Your lovely wife would not take kindly to the proof of your unfaithfulness living within your walls and if you think you can change your mind on that, I will name you a fool. Resentment is what he will face my lord, resentment and loathing which neither you nor he can disperse, no matter how hard you try. If he inherits your stubborn honour and pride as well, he would not want to be a burden to his family as it would inevitably be pointed out to him. So, in the end, I ask you; what exactly happens to unwanted bastards?"

"The wall", he replied feebly, all arguments lost to him.

The man remarked, "So, without raising a hand against the boy, you would have condemned the boy to certain death, for that is what him in the end if he journeys there. Your honour and desire to protect your blood will lead you to spill even more of it."

"What do you suggest then?" he asked irritably. "Suggest? Nothing at all. All I'm doing is stating the choices which you have and what outcomes they will result in."

"You're deflecting my question." "You're learning. You could always send him with us." "Us?" "I'm going with him, Ned."

It did not take him long to figure out what she meant this time. He had suspected as much when he saw how close they were but the confirmation still hurt. Father and Brandon had died for her. He had marched to war, married a stranger, seen his friends die and killed countless people, risked his life repeatedly and lost his honour by doing nothing as people murdered children and presented them as trophies. All for her! Did she not understand? How could she possibly be that stupid? What was worse was that he could see recent history repeating itself now, and this time, he was not sure what Jon and Robert would think of her.

"No," he replied dully. "No? Just because I am grateful to Robert doesn't mean that I am blind to what he is. How many bastards did he father during the war?" ' _Less than you'_ a vindictive part of his mind answered. Too late he realized that he had muttered aloud and judging from her eyes narrowing she had heard it as well. "Has becoming the new lord of Winterfell given you a thicker head? What are you going to do, have me bound hand and foot to meet your precious new king?"

He could feel his irritation and anger threatening to blow over as he gritted and replied, "Damn you Lyanna, why do you have to be like this? I may be the Lord of Winterfell, but I am still your family. How can you imagine that I would not want the best for you?"

"The day you stood by and did nothing when Father arranged to have me betrothed to Robert. You knew that I did not want that but you were always a follower. They could have whored me off to the mad king and you still would have sat and done nothing. How could I trust you after that?" the pain in her voice was clearer now, but in his mounting fury, Eddard said a few words which he would regret for the rest of his life.

"I hope you are proud of that because Father and Brandon paid the price for your actions."

She froze upon hearing that and for an unbearable few seconds, time seemed to have frozen; how he wished he could have taken those words back but now, time could be frozen but not turned back. She got up and left the room as fast as possible while still trying to remain dignified and trying to hide the tears streaming down her face.


	4. Chapter 4: The Lost Wolf Part 2

**The Lost Wolf Part 2**

Never had she hated herself more than at that moment; when she broke down at what her brother had said in anger. Words were wind it was said, but the strongest person can be bent like a reed under the right conditions. Her self-loathing was not helped by her traitorous body; still somewhat unpredictable after birth, as it decided that a few words spoken in anger were justification for breaking into tears. She tried to control herself and march out but a part of her was painfully aware that the room's other occupants were not the slightest bit fooled about the cause of her departure.

However, hate alone was not enough to torment her because she knew that as much as the knowledge was unwelcome; Ned was completely justified in his words, intended or otherwise. Yet what was left unsaid was bound to create even more problems later on. Did he expect that she would abandon her child to gallivant around with a stranger? She knew that Osiris (a false name, he told her) had intentionally avoided his own introductions and scraping by with just a name, not an uncommon one at that. There was also the question of what Ned thought was the relationship between her and Sand. He may not have been aware of it but in his own seemingly amoral, lawless way; Osiris could have given Ned's honour a run for its money. On the bright side, he was much better at explanations and her absence might actually help the argument if Osiris stepped in, if he stepped in.

Fretting over it was not going to help her so she decided to take charge of what she could actually control. Half an hour later after she had cleaned herself up, ate something and steeled herself (that took the longest) for the unbearable conversation to follow she went back…to find the room empty.

Wylla entered the room and before she could up, she nudged her chin upwards to the roof. "Where's…" she started to ask but then remembered that she had wanted Ned to name the child. A selfish peace offering to be honest but she believed that the child should be named by somebody he would be able to look up to in the future. Fortunately, Wylla knew what She was about to ask and replied, "sleeping, M'lady."

If there was one thing that Dorne has similar to the North is the night sky. Sure, a maester would not forget to point out the slight shift in the constellations and so on but to the unchained what did it matter? A constellation by any inclination was just as heavenly; awe-inspiring to the poet or singer in anybody who actually bothered to look up. Having been locked in a room for a year, she had gained a new appreciation for such a view and so did Ned apparently who looked quieter than usual, if that was possible.

She tried to force a smile before reminding herself that she knew better than to try to charm him. He turned around but his face might as well have been made of ice for her to try and read it. Neither a frown nor a smile furnished it and when he spoke, it sounded like a dead man's voice from the afterlife. What _exactly_ did Osiris tell him?

"Go, Lya." "Excuse me?" "Did you not hear me? I said go. Enough lives have been lost in your name. So as much as it would taint my honour; it is not worth the lives of thousands more to protect yours. Go now before I change my mind."

She could barely believe him and it must have shown because Ned then shut the trap on the carefully worded bait. "I must admit, not many people would have the courage that you do Lya, to leave behind a new-born in search of escape. It's either that or cowardice."

"I don't mean to leave him behind, Ned. He is going to…" "Go with you? Go where exactly? You continue to astound me sister; it takes a special kind of ruthlessness to kill your own child to further your wishes."

"I am not going to kill him, Ned!" " _No_ , you are just going to go ride off into the desert with him with a child in tow. Never mind the fact that he is a new-born. Even if you can avoid being killed in your sleep, there are half a hundred ways that the child can die there. I have given up on stopping you or at least, to try to stop you from getting yourself killed Lya. I have given up on fixing your mistakes. If you are so eager to avoid a marriage that you would go out hunting in the winter, then you have my consent, but you will never have my blessing. However, I would let the others take me before I would let you harm the boy."

She remembered the day's conversation prior to her fleeing the room; and was flooded with the embarrassment of being proven wrong, "Before you deny it, you should remember that you and your friend laid the same argument against me when I tried to take Jon as my own. The argument still holds here."

For a moment she saw her father there, the warmth was still there somewhere, but it was hidden behind winter given form. She knew that there would be no moving him. So for the first time in her life, she learnt to keep her mouth shut.

"You did say that I should have put what I knew to be right ahead of what I am told to follow. Now is a good place to start as any."


	5. Chapter 5: A Fish out of water

**A fish out of water**

Catelyn had never really liked the North. She was a child of the Riverlands, used to seemingly endless fields; watered with rivers of all imaginable sizes and colours often packed with barges. She was used to seeing inns and homes every few miles. Lands dotted with small villages and towns, the largest of whom could be considered small cities. She was used to warm, sun-kissed days and cool nights with the smell of harvest and fields in the air. This far north, all she could smell was snow, snow in the middle of summer.

When she had heard that she was to reach Winterfell _without_ her husband; it seemed that her fears had come true. She feared the words that people would whisper behind her back. Why wouldn't they, with her betrothed executed in a brutal manner and now her husband lying dead in a foreign land? Lords were not the most superstitious of people but they would notice (especially with her Whent blood) and say, "A Single death is a tragedy, two deaths on the other hand? Now that's a curse in the making". However, her biggest fear was of what would happen to Robb. Not even a year old and he would have an entire kingdom on his hands.

There would undoubtedly be a time of regency; the only question would be the choice of regent. She had barely met her Brother-in-law Benjen before but from all accounts, he was a good man. No the kind to try and usurp a young but closer heir's claim. She loathed admitting it but her worry was about her Father. Hoster Tully was an ambitious man, a quality easy to overlook as a fault seeing the lands he ruled. However, those close to him knew how far this type of ruthless pragmatism could go. Even with the presence of blood, a part of her knew that he would love to vie for a hand at the Regency or at the least send her uncle Brynden for the job regardless of what the Northern Lords thought of it. This little realization was a thorn in her side, digging in and making her restless at the thoughts of her father's meddling. Fortunately, her Uncle Brynden was of the same mind as her and so flat out refused her father's _subtle_ request that he escort her to her new home. According to him, his reasons had to do with some post given to him in the Vale but she knew the truth. Her uncle had always known better than to treat her like a child.

* * *

After passing north of the neck, it seemed that the colour had drained from the world. The Sun seemed to hide behind the ever-present clouds and the world turned as grey as the direwolf on the Stark banners. She had a small escort of men from Riverrun following her and all seemed as disgruntled as her the further north they went. It was at the end of the first week of the journey that she saw the first of the summer snows. It would not stop till they reached Winterfell.

"Winterfell; seat of House Stark, one of the oldest houses with one of the oldest castles, in the oldest of the Seven Kingdoms, of Westeros. Its origins shrouded in mystery, even down to its name." It was a quote by a maester who once told her that the story behind Winterfell's name was disputed by two groups. The folklore's pointed to the tales of the Long Night. Being the home of the man who built the wall and in a sense made the strength of winter "fall." Whether in the sense of his defeat of the others or his conquest of the cold by building a castle heated by the earth itself, who knows? The more sober-minded ones pointed to the flatlands surrounding the castle. The castle built around Winter's fells which over time became Winterfell, not unlike Karhold. As they passed through the portcullises, she could feel the years of history pressing down on her, judging her.

"Lady Stark!" the man who called out came walking briskly towards her with a wetnurse and servants in tow. "I am Vayon Poole, steward of Winterfell and I bid you welcome. Lord Stark has been waiting for you."

The smile and greeting died for a moment as she heard the Steward speak. Her fears returned for a moment as she imagined her brother by law claiming Robb as a bastard and claiming her brother's set for her own. She pushed the thoughts away and with a weak attempt at a smile managed to ask, "Lord Stark?"

The Steward merely looked confused as he replied, "Well, yes. He returned from Dorne a month ago by sea and has been waiting for you since."

The confusion cleared as the significance of the words hit her. Before the steward could reply, she got down and marched to the first building in sight, moving as fast as possible while still trying to appear dignified. She had underestimated the castle however and instead of marching towards what appeared to be the Great Keep but instead wound up deeper and deeper into the castle, with a small group of guards and maids in tow. Ignoring their looks, she went further down the corridors, not daring to stop in case they saw the look of embarrassment as she lost her way in the stone maze.

"Turn around Lady Stark," a voice called out gently causing her to stop. As she turned, she spotted a kindly looking woman standing right next to her. "What?" she replied, begging her body to not give away her embarrassment. "You are searching for Lord Stark no? At the moment, I believe he is in the Great Hall. This corridor, on the other hand, leads to the armoury, which is in the opposite direction."

"Thank you", she managed to reply as the woman just smiled and started to leave without so much as a 'by-your-leave'. She suddenly stopped and looked back at her patiently, clearly signalling that she expected Catelyn to follow her. In any other situation by a prideful woman, such an action by a servant would have been a cause for anger. Thankfully, her tiredness and sense overcame her pride and she accepted the woman's help. ' _In a way, it was in her nature'_ , she mused. ' _The Dornish are known for being quite willful and liberal. It apparently extends to the servants as well'._

The great hall of Winterfell would have fit both lord and peasant alike. The size conveyed the importance, seeing who but a great lord could own a dining hall larger than most of the lesser lord's holdfasts. However, for whatever they put into size, comparably little was put into decoration. It was still quite liveable, and there was the odd bit of decoration but if one were to ignore the aspect of size, well it could be considered a very comfortable inn.

For all the bare furnishings, however, the smell of a feast easily compensated for that. The hall was only half full and yet, the sense of liveliness made it look like the festivities would spill over any moment. The air was heavy with the smell of roasted meat. That and wine, mashed neeps, a healthy side of fish, skewers of meat, soups, pies and bread. She could detect venison, mutton, poultry and even a hint of spice with just one sniff so she couldn't really be blamed when her stomach grumbled loudly enough to be heard over the chatter.

Also, nobody would have blamed her for reddening when the hall became still at the noise and all looked towards her. The redness of her face could have put her hair to shame at that moment. However, the man at the head of the table could not have cared, because while everybody sat tongue-tied at the interruption, he got up and moved towards her. Before any apologies could be offered by her, he instead led her to the dais and set her down to his right. He then offered a toast to his wife and son and apologized quietly and profusely for missing her arrival. At the end of the day, it seemed that this cold unforgiving land might become her new home after all.


	6. Chapter 6: The Lonely Wolves

The Lonely Wolves **Part 1**

The days passed, followed by the months, then years. Summer lasted for a few years before giving way to autumn, winter and spring. Even with the passage of time, not a single day passed when he did not miss Lyanna.

As the cold winds blew around and over the first keep with the wolf lord atop it, he was quite grateful that the snows had finally stopped falling. He looked up to the now visible moon and for a moment the world around him came as bright as day. In that fleeting moment, he had an urge to howl like his four-legged kin in the woods.

Shaking his head to get rid of such thoughts, he squinted his eyes till the brightness disappeared and the urge to howl went down. He went down the stairs hoping to forget the sudden brightness and yet remembering his surroundings there as though the image had been burned into his mind. The sounds of blade clashing broke up his reverie as he climbed down. Who could possibly be trying to wake up half the castle at this time of night? Then again, who could possibly want to spend their nights atop windy towers restraining themselves from howling at the moon?

As he reached the foot of the stairs and walked stealthily towards the open windows, he was greeted by a surprising and at the same time, not that surprising sight. His nephew was clashing blades against a sparring mannequin apparently venting his anger over something or the other. There was no strategy, no technique, not even an application of skill, just blind fury as he seemed intent on hacking the poor mannequin to pieces.

' _The blisters will feel like hell in the morning'_ , Ned mused before getting an idea, the kind Lyanna would approve of and which she had actually been responsible for. He pulled out the small dagger strapped to his belt. It was a habit which he had learnt upon insistence by Lyanna in her last letters like the one in his boot, and his sleeve.

The dagger was still sheathed, but it would be enough to fool anyone who was not looking at it. He sneaked up to him, quickly covered his mouth and pressed the knife to his neck.

He expected Jon to at least jump, maybe scream a bit with a voice which he could rile him with later. What he _should_ have expected was for Jon to react defensively and the momentum of Jon's last swing to cause him to hit him with the elbow to the side. He should _also_ have expected that Jon would try to hit back without knowing who it was and he _definitely_ should have expected the sparring sword would come into play. Had the blade been given an edge, they both would have lost their heads in the accident and the execution which would have followed it.

As he got up after getting dazed and beaten by someone a third of his age; the terrified, slightly comical look on Jon's face made him want to laugh, quite unfortunate for his bruised ribs and neck.

"Uncle! I…I mean, Lord Stark! I beg your pardon. I swear that it was an accident. I didn't mean to hit you. I didn't know that it was you. I thought that… well, I would never hit you."

Ned waved it off, his ribs still hurting if he tried to speak. He took a deep breath before talking, "think nothing of it, Jon. It was mostly my fault for sneaking up on somebody in the middle of training. Though from what it looked like, I did have a hard time imagining what exactly the post did to anger you. What's bothering you Son?"

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before asking, "Do... do you believe in ghosts Lord Stark?"

"Ghosts? What brought this up?"

"Well… never mind, just a few nightmares. I'd better get going, by your leave."

Ned must have given the leave because the next thing he saw was Jon sprinting back to the main keep as though the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.

Ned was woken the next by a bird pecking on his face. For a man used to the tender ministrations of a wife, this was quite an unpleasant substitute. He tried shooing it away but the little pest was not having any of it, instead resorting to pecking his ears. After being tortured beyond enduring he got up slowly while grumbling, "I swear smoke, you are my little hell-spawn of a sister writ small."

The raven squawked as though pleased at the words before promptly extending its leg to display a scroll. He picked it up and started reading. _'Darker Wings, Darker Words_ ', he mused at his sister's latest message. The five words written there made him jump out of bed and ready to move with a haste not seen since the rebellion.

His knowledge of his Sister's adventures around the world, gallivanting with that Sand and his ilk was mostly a secret to him and he preferred it that way. The little bits he received did not change his mind. There were enough troubles in the North proper to worry about capturing Slaver Ships and freeing them, arming the Lhazarene, trying to bring down the Volantene Freehold by influencing their elections, trying to stop incursions from _beyond the wall_ of all places and even breaking into the Citadel. However, the latest stories hit home, seeing her latest target was almost next door. Since the first letter appeared a month ago, he had tried his best to gather informants with abysmal results. However, from what little he could receive from both his Sister and his informants, he would have to keep a close eye on Ramsay Snow.

 **Part 2**

' _I reach the end of the trail, the air is still, and I am a hunter. Well, a hunter who has spent the last three hours in a piss-hole of a tavern'_ Qebui mused as She contemplated whether to risk actually drinking the yellow piss which served as ale here. She knew better than to even attempt the abomination which passed for a sausage. Bracing herself, she pretended to take a drink from the tankard as she strained her ears to the conversation around her. A chatter of voices; sailors boasting about the various journeys they had and the sights they saw, two sell-swords dicing and bickering in a corner, a group of whores trying to ply their wares to a new batch of sailors and the tavern keeper complaining about it all. She breathed deeply trying to avoid the overpowering stench of the place, strained her concentration and opened her mind.

With her eyes closed, the tavern seemed to open up in her mind. The smells stopped assaulting her nose and instead appeared as smoke, billowing as mist and giving form to the bodies emanating them. Voices took the form of ripples moving through the air, one only needed to "look" at them and she could hear the words as though she was right next to the speaker.

She flitted her sight from one ripple to another before finally setting on the intended target. One of the two was elderly and apparently the follower. The leader, on the other hand, seemed to be barely more than a boy, with an overpowering stench and a fleshy visage. To any observer, he might have elicited pity as a witless beggar. She knew better than that.

She would use the spike for the kill here, She would not dirty her newly obtained bade with the blood of such a despicable creature.

"Well, Ben? What did the harbour master say?" "Pardons m'lord. But the harbour master says that Lord Manderly has blockaded the harbour until you are caught. It seems that someone saw you enter the city m'lord. They are even checking crates and barrels leaving the harbour and the gates."

She smirked at that, silently thanking Smoke's stubbornness as it had managed to fly through a snowstorm from Winterfell to White harbour to alert Lord Manderly in time. She focused on the conversation again as she heard the Bastard speaking, "So what of it? They are looking for a body, right? Well, let's give it to them." "M'lord?"

That was all the old man could ask as the Bastard stuck a dagger into his gut. He let out a gasp of air and stumbled. The bastard caught him and started to half-carry and half-drag him to the door. To anybody not paying close attention, it would have looked like a servant or Son helping their drunken master or Father back home. The red coloured clothes that the old man wore did help to hide the blood.

She waited for half a minute as her head cleared after using the sight. Then as she moved to follow them, she noticed that the sell-swords had beaten her to it. Grimacing slightly, she got up and left the tavern through the back door.

She had visited the City a dozen times in her youth; and half a dozen more after she earned her cowl. She had learnt the location of every hidden alley, climbing and landing spot, hidden ledges and blind spots that the city had to offer. She had gone out the back door looking no different from a worker; hunched over and carrying a sack over her shoulder. However, as soon as she turned a corner into an alley and was out of sight, she put her cowl on and fastened the cloak and blades hidden in the sack. With a running leap, she kicked herself off one wall and grabbed onto the handholds and footholds on the other. She started climbing up quickly, pushing downwards with both legs, one on each wall to ascend while using her arms to avoid falling off. A few moments later, the edge of the roof appeared and she gratefully grabbed on to it. It was a fast but tiring method and it paid off. In the sea of grey slate roofs, she found the one belonging to the tavern and quickly judged the direction in which she had seen them disappear.

She jumped the gap between the roof of the tavern and the one on which she stood and moved quietly, praying silently to avoid and loose ties or flocks of gulls. She had her back to the sun and yet was crouched low enough to avoid giving off a silhouette. In the distance, she heard a raven's cries and sure enough, smoke was there apparently doing her mistresses bidding and had marked her target's location.

Perching on an overhanging window, she looked at the scene below. Four dead men, two wounded, and five with their swords drawn. One of the dead men was the Old Man, _'Old Ben Bones they called him'_ , she recalled from her many informers, and the other two had apparently been armed with nothing more than a whip and a dagger. One of the sell-swords had been mortally wounded but had apparently taken down his attacker with him. ' _Skinner and Damon; both dead as well. So is Luton, or maybe that's Alyn or Dick'._ The other wounded man was still capable of fighting, though bleeding heavily. _'That must be Walton, Steelshanks they call him, which leaves the last two of the Bastard's boys and the Bastard himself'._

Even with these losses, the bastard still seemed to have a feral grin on his face as they circled the last sell-sword. "I am flattered really, in the past not even the ugliest of girls were so insistent on my company. Being hunted by the North does seem to work wonders on my charms. Personally, I prefer girls but I would let Dick here have his way with you seeing how much you are ready to work for it."

She did have to admire the sell-sword, in the face of the worst that the North had to offer, he wasn't pissing himself. Breath was slightly fast but not shallow, stance relaxed yet alert and eyes steady on the most dangerous foes here. He might have been a worthy recruit, but that was for another day. For now, she just had to make sure that her only possible ally did not end up dead. "This is nothing personal. It's the gold I'm after, not your highborn arse bastard. So let's get this over with shall we?"

The grin had changed to a snarl with the word bastard and he gripped his falchion tighter as he barked out, "Steelshanks, Luton, bring me his hands. Save the rest, I have something planned for that. Walton…Walton did you hear me I said bring me his…"

Walton did hear that, but having a poisonous dart to one's neck brings about certain unexpected changes. In the throes of uninhibited fear, with the last vestiges of his strength, Walton cut open Yellow Dick from waist to collarbone and taking advantage of the distraction, the sell-sword jammed a dagger into Luton's neck. Ramsay would have been next had he not used the remains of Dick as a shield to push Walton towards the sell-sword. Walton charged the man without an ounce of self-preservation and knocked him over, heedless of the entrails spilling from his belly where the sell-sword's dagger had buried itself into.

Ramsay smiled at the sight in front of him. A small part of him knew that he would not survive White Harbor; that sooner or later his head would roll. But for now; having the man who caused all this trouble for him, lying helpless and disarmed, ready to be punished, it seems that he would die doing what he enjoyed the most after all.

He picked up Fletcher's knife and started moving towards the man. He had apparently sprained his ankle as he fell, no wonder he could barely move, other than the dead man pinning him down. He moved deliberately towards the man, relishing the sight of the fear in the man's eyes. That was when a shadow fell around them.

The next thing he was aware of was a heavy weight falling on his head, nearly knocking him senseless. Dazed, he vaguely realized that he was lying on the ground before his stomach erupted in pain. As his vision cleared through the fog, he saw somebody standing above him, foot raised and aimed at his gut. Before he could protest or curse, the foot went down and the pain was back, stronger than before. He could feel the ground cracking beneath him and his blood on his tongue. Wait, he couldn't feel his tongue. He must have bitten it off. As he tried to move, the pain came back just as bad as before and he was vaguely aware that he was somehow pinned to the ground.

He lay there choking on his blood, crying for help and trying to bite his wrists open to kill himself. His teeth had become broken somehow and that didn't work and he couldn't choke on his own blood as it spilt out of his mouth with every scream. As the world started turning black, he saw a shadow above him of what appeared to be a woman, face etched in revulsion and sadness. A part of him wondered whether this was the mother that the Southerners spoke of and another part of him wondered whether that would matter. The woman picked up his head, almost gently and whispered into his ear, "I know what you are Ramsay. Bolton or Snow, your name does not change that. I have hated you for that, hated you for so long and yet I seem to forget that you were what the world and your maker made you.

Do not worry; your maker's turn will come too. As for you, the fact is that the world would be a better place after you leave, and far better after your maker does too. Maybe you might meet him again in another life. Try taking some comfort in that if you can."

With that; a raven's feather brushed against his neck, the world turned to black and he died.


	7. Chapter 7: The Wolves meet

The Wolves meet

 **Eel Alley**

"So, it is done then?"

The woman nodded slowly before speaking, "As we speak, a sell-sword is delivering the Bastard's head to Lord Manderly. He is smart enough to keep my involvement a secret. He doesn't like sharing the money and having a knife to his neck even less. Lord Manderly would hopefully be too jubilant to ask too many questions. He would be much too pre-occupied to think about the honours that you would grant him."

The man grimaced slightly upon hearing that, "I would have preferred to sentence the man myself."

"We can't always get what we want, little brother" she replied smirking before continuing. "Besides, had I waited for a trial, Ramsay Snow would have been halfway to Essos as we speak and all that would be left here would be an alleyway painted red and decorated with corpses."

He frowned at that before replying, "The alleyway was _still_ 'painted red and decorated with corpses' as you put it. One of the reasons why I consented to this was because I believed that you would be subtle."

She cringed inwardly at that. Part of her acknowledged that there was truth to her brother's words; another part wondered whether the wits he had gained that night in Dorne had all leaked out over the years. Either way, his patronising tone did not help her mood, "this would have been done regardless of your consent, dear brother. The only reason I shared this with you was that co-operation with somebody in power would have been preferable to hostility." The words were meant to sting and she did not hold back. Her dear brother might not be as obsessed with his pride as the lords to the South, but his stiff sense of honour was almost indistinguishable at times to an outsider. Hoping to soften the mood, she gave a slightly more practical reason, "besides, if you did not work with us, Ramsay Snow would still be hunting, raping and flaying as we speak. Instead, he now rests atop a spike, well his head does. So, even though you would have preferred to serve your sense of honour, can you honestly say that the deaths of who knows how many have been saved by my 'dishonourable' actions? If you somehow found out about Roose Bolton on your own, unlikely seeing how it has been happening since Father's time, could you tell the families, if any families did survive that monster that you were willing to let their daughters die because you were far too concerned about any blight on your precious honour? That you were so obsessed with fair trials for people who were clearly guilty; protecting them rather than the victims, to face the risk of him escaping rather than having the stomach to put down a monster in cold blood that you let him run rampant during that time?"

The words were succeeded by a long uncomfortable silence. Ned seemed to be biting down on his jaw, his face guarded but still readable. Her words clearly hurt him, but other than the hurt there were signs also of…shame?

"I'm not a murderer Lya." The words came out almost as a whisper, but she had an idea what he was trying yet failing to say. Her dear brother had seen almost as many horrors as she had, however the one which he was referring to was clear. He could never abode the deaths of children and the idea of assassinating a boy, a twisted one at that but still, a boy must have been far too close the actions of Tywin Lannister. The death of children had always been a sore point for him and this incident would just have opened up old wounds.

"We're all murderers Ned. The only difference is _how_ we do it. You do it with ceremony and call it an execution; I do it from the shadows and call it an assassination. The result is the same."

"It's not the same and you know it. If I execute somebody, I let them make their peace before they do. I let them accept their fates instead of snuffing their lives out like candles. It's a small act of kindness Lya, but it makes all the difference in the world."

"An act of cruelty, I call it. You let them contemplate their deaths over-and-over again Ned. It may not involve racks or breaking wheels but it is still an act of torture. It may not make for a good show Ned, but a quick death is a gift, too quick for most of them to realise. It is a cold way aye, but kinder than making a show of it."

"Would you ever accept such a death Lya? To end up dying on the table here, as we speak with no warning? To have a stranger come to you, give cold words of comfort and claim it was for the greater good, while another stranger claims what is left of you?"

"Would I prefer it, in a perfect world? No. In a perfect world, I would die in comfort at the age of 90 with the banners of my enemies kept as trophies around me and my friends and family next to me. Had I been younger, a gingerbread castle with a moat of honey might have been included there." The cynical smile on her face which seemed to be ever present seemed to deepen at that image. "Alas, Ned it is not such a perfect world after all. Your intentions are no different from mine Ned, we just happen to disagree on the methods. I would not stop you from implementing them, provided you act the same towards me."

The need for reply was cut short as in a flurry of feathers Smoke returned with a message tied to her leg. After fondly pecking Ned on the ear she flew to Lyanna's shoulder and promptly delivered a message.

She unravelled and read the scroll, tearing it up as she finished and the scraps thrown in the fireplace. She checked her blades and fastened her travelling cloak, knowing that Ned would follow her actions without asking. They left, completely indistinct as two more travellers; a red-haired man and a golden-haired woman with cowls in the shadiest winesink in the city.

 **Outer Port**

It was a relief to breathe the outside air and even though travel through the back alleys and hideouts was disorienting, the welcome sight of the port was a bittersweet relief. Somehow, Lyanna had managed to completely change her appearance in that time, not looking unlike any other sailor lining the port. It saddened him how much better she seemed to fit in better here than she ever did with the nobles North or South. How could he have ever imagined her being content to being Robert's broodmare?

Among the ships present there, a Swan Ship of the Summer Isles caught his eye as he noticed the ram and the prow. The ram was a solid wedge of metal thrusting off the front, shaped like a blade and so disproportionately large that it was a miracle that the ship stayed in balance. However, it was the prow which caught his eye, a cloaked and cowled figure with a single burning eye arms crossed and staring severely straight ahead.

"That, is your ship?" the question came out more accusatory than inquiring but she just grinned at the tone. "I'm just one of the crew Ned; I didn't choose the bloody decorations. Now, wait here, I have a gift for you." Without waiting for a reply, she ran up the ramp and leapt down a hatch ignoring her elder brother standing outside uncomfortably trying to look otherwise. After a few minutes, she returned with a cage and a box.

"This", she said handing him the cage, "is for you; one of Smoke's children". "What am I supposed to do with it" "'It' is a male. He is like a Maester's Raven, but smarter. This should stop you from getting greyer in worry about lack of news. As much as I know how fond you are of Smoke, She is overworked as it is." Ned didn't deign to reply about any supposed affection towards Lyanna's pet, worrying about how he would explain this to Catelyn, instead, choosing to avoid the topic altogether.

"What's in the box?" "It's for Jon, Ned. Did you think that I would forget his name day? How is he?" His face hardened at that, before he replied, "you can't keep doing this Lya."

Her smile faltered to be replaced with confusion. "Do what?" "This" he replied motioning towards the box. "Running off to the ends of the earth, coming back with a few trinkets and trying to act like his mother before running off again. Do you truly want to know what Jon is like? I hear the whispers in my sleep. My wife worries about his claim, being the son of the elder brother, bastard or not. The servants don't dare to utter it in my presence, but I have learnt to hide too. They whisper about his supposed mother; Wylla, Ashara, Barbary or even a common whore according to Theon. I have had my share of sleepless nights Lya, can you imagine what it must be like for him? Your 'gifts' won't exactly make it easier to talk to him. Put yourself in my place and tell me how to explain to a little boy that his mother would face murderers and pirates rather than see him."

For a moment, the cold was forgotten as it seemed that the past 7 years had been forgotten and they were back in Dorne when for the first time in living memory; in cold fury, he had managed to drive his sister speechless. There was less fury and a lot more coldness now, but the result was the same. The moment lasted far less long now.

"Don't you dare, don't you dare tell me that I don't care about Jon, your oh-so-honourable-high-and-mighty Lord Eddard Stark. I have made a lot of mistakes in my life Ned, a lot. Choosing this" she grabbed her wrist "and leaving Jon in your hands was not one of them. The path I have taken offered redemption Ned, something I could not refuse. You were right, however, that I could not bring Jon to such a life. No redemption would have been possible for such an act. But that does not make it easy Ned, it was never easy. You ask me why I would not see Jon? Could _you_ think of a way that could explain my life to him?"

Her mentor's words entered her mind, calming her down as she explained, "As for telling him about his mother Ned, _Nothing Is True_. I may have birthed him, but I was never his mother. Wylla was the closest he had to a mother. Catelyn _might_ have been, in other circumstance. Old Nan is the closest he has at present. They are all his mothers in a way, including me, but none of us really are. As for the gift Ned, _Everything Is Permitted_. You were permitted to raise him as his uncle and face the consequences. I was permitted to leave him, and I face the consequences for it every day, just so. Also, I am permitted to atone and face its results, good or bad. You too are permitted to accept or refuse to give him this gift, if you are ready to live with its consequences and he can accept or reject this gift, as he chooses."

No further words needed to be said as Ned picked up the cage and the box. Then he moved back and watched the ship depart with his sister. He stood there for almost an hour as it sailed into the sunset.


	8. Chapter 8: Views

Views

 **Qebui**

 _The Sea Shade_ was a floating monstrosity; 20 feet wide at its widest and less than half that at its narrowest. It had a ram half hidden by the waves almost half as long as the body and a maze of ropes, sails and rigging which would rival any swan ship. Built from the memories of people non-existent in this world and long gone from theirs, there was none like it in the rest of the world. Admittedly the dimensions were a bit off and improvements were inevitable in the future but for now, Lyanna could rest easy knowing that it could run in circles against almost any Westerosi vessel.

An assassin's ship in every sense of the word, it would mostly come out at night with black sails, ram a target vessel and before the crew could figure out what happened, they would escape leaving a crippled sinking ship in their wake. With hindsight, it seems obvious that not everybody lauded the brilliance of such tactics. How else could they explain the small Volantene fleet bearing down on them howling for their blood?

The crew was driven into a frenzy as the Captain Wadj-wer opened his far eyes and made a count. "20 galleys at the briefest count, with possibly more to come before the sun sets", he murmured. Pulling up his cowl he looked at her and for the first time, there was no judgement in his eyes. "Are you ready to die, _little cub_?"

Was she ready to die? There was no real answer. Her son had always grown up without knowing her ( _for the better_ she would console herself but it never worked), she had taken lives and spared them, there were people who were better off today because of her. None of that could balance out the cost of her follies all those years ago. But she tried, doesn't that count? There were no clear answers, or maybe she could not realize them yet. She needed more time.

"Please, after you old man", she replied knowing that after that the old man would drag himself through the seven hells and back before conceding defeat. All well and good, a stubborn captain went a long way. He heard the challenge and pulled up his cowl, "The Lady of the waves would have to go lonely tonight it seems. Men! The Volantenes have come courting. Let's give them what a proper welcome. For the Sea Shade!"

"For the Sea Shade!" half a hundred voices called back. As the sails unfurled to the fullest and the vessel seemed to sail in suicidal recklessness towards the fleet, Qebui could not help but consider that such a death among brothers and sisters-in-arms with a blade in hand and a curse on her lips may not be so bad after all.

As she readied herself to die, she spoke the words, almost like a whisper and yet clear enough for the captain to hear, "For the Sea Shade and the memory of Amunet!"

 **The Observant Kraken**

"What do you see, priest?" murmured the captain as he looked outwards. "Blood, Captain. Before the day is done, the sea will be drenched in blood. Your ship will sail over the waves with you at the helm and there will be much sorrow among your enemies."

He grunted in satisfaction over the words before grabbing the man's chains and dragged him below deck. With a small grunt of protest, the man complied and moved down. They were truly valuable commodities, as long as they didn't get too clever. There was still some resistance there, but a few more days strapped to the prow and it would be beaten from him. He had started this 'collection' a few years back. A few priests and warlocks who had managed to annoy him had been starved and made to pray for their gods. One of the bolder ones had offered to open his eyes with a foul tasting concoction in exchange for his life. It looked as thick as bile and smelled like rotting meat. The drink that they called "The Shade of the evening" had stained their lips blue and stretched them to unnatural proportions. The warlocks, however, seemed to live off it and so in a reckless moment of curiosity, he took a drink.

That was a few years ago and he hadn't stopped since. The warlock was long dead; his blood having given the brew some potency and his skull decorated his bed. The other priests had been well… bland and so too were any septon or priest that he could find. That was until he tasted the blood of the Red Priests in his brew. His crew knew better than to object, especially after he started ripping out tongues among the unruly. Now, his hands would shake if he went too long without it and the world would start become drained of colour. When he did have the drink, however…

The world would be so much clearer. The sights and sounds that he had spent a childhood drinking away came back clearer but now he had learnt to embrace them. After that, there was no change of wind or tide, rogue wind or hidden reef that he ever missed. He could sail around the coast of Shipbreaker Bay blindfolded if he so wished. How could he ever be content with reaving after that?

Distant sails could be seen on the horizon along with smoke and the unmistakable sound of dying men. The priest did speak truly. The seas would be painted red tonight.

 **The Wolf Lord**

New Castle was full of music that night and Eddard felt a slight twinge of regret at having accepted the Merman's offer of an overnight stay. He didn't truly mind the man, but seeing a seemingly endless train of pastries and lamprey pies being devoured by that bottomless pit he called a mouth was more than enough to quell his appetites. He alone seemed to be an exception to this as the rest of the court had apparently become tolerant at the sight of such excess gluttony. So he politely sipped his wine and tried to keep his meal down at the sight of the Fat Lord of White Harbor demolish an entire lobster on his own.

Toasts ensued; to the King, to Lord Stark for his trust in the good men of White Harbor, to Marlon Manderly, commander of the White Harbor garrison, to good King Robert and on and on…

It was well past the hour of the owl when the sound of merriment mercifully started to die away. For a man of his girth, Lord Manderly seemed to have an impressive sense of balance, no doubt borne of experience. Unfortunately for a light drinker like himself, the effort to look dignified after drinking with a near empty stomach was hardly effortless and the world seemed to spin before his eyes before going bright.

The surroundings seemed to darken and the sound of revelry dulled and yet, the people stood out sharply, almost incandescent in comparison to the walls. Music might have dulled, but whispers seemed to get sharper, conversations which were happening across the hall could not be clearer had the words been spoken into his ear. The world was a flash of colours; most were greyish white or blue, a few glowed faintly yellow and yet, a hint of red was always present. He could hear half a dozen conversations at once and none seemed to overlap or drown out the rest. Overwhelming could not define this sensation.

Thankfully, before his mind broke, this "second sight" seemed to die down and the world went back to the wine-filled haze that he remembered. Unfortunately, it seemed that his sudden lapse into visions had not gone unnoticed, judging from the looks of concern on the face of his host.

He gave a weak smile before muttering out half-formed excuses about being unused to the richness of the foods and wines served. Lord Manderly waved it away with a laugh and continued with the destruction of the platters closest at hand. Begging pardons, Ned stood up and turned to leave the hall, willing his body to not collapse from the strain in his mind.

* * *

His room was fit for a king, and yet he could not sleep soundly. The overstuffed pillows and blankets threatened to smother him and the lack of windows made the room unnecessarily warm. That would be tolerable had it not been for the colours. Every time he closed his eyes and tried to think, the world would go grey and whispers would turn into voices. In times of war, it would be a priceless gift but it also made it near impossible for him to sleep. To make matters worse; from what he could hear, it sounded like a storm was gathering outside.

Mercifully, the rumbling and fall of rain seemed to quieten the chatter and dull the colours floating in his mind. With this small act of mercy by the gods, he lay down to sleep as a small part of him wondered about how his estranged sister was handling the storm.

 **The Northern Trout**

Her greatest fear was that the next time her husband came home it would be with a bastard of his own. She already tolerated having one bastard under her roof and the thought of another wasn't worth bearing. Brandon was a known womaniser but having a living proof of his infidelity was another matter entirely. She couldn't even begin to imagine how much it would hurt if another Snow was raised here with Ned as the father.

In fairness, Catelyn Stark did not have much to complain about. Unlike many other women, she had a husband who cared for her or at least tried to. She was blessed with three beautiful children and lived in the relative comfort of the largest castle of the North. There was nothing to complain about had it not been for her husband's actions the last few days. It was not uncommon for Lords to keep mistresses and she had been warned about this possibility. She was prepared to look the other way provided that her husband didn't shame her and that there was no shortage of moon-tea. Yet, she had never been sure till now and in hindsight, it seemed to make sense.

She once tried to ask him who was his correspondence who kept on sending him messages in all odd hours of the day or night and his face had grown harder than the statues in the crypt. She even tried to read them once but the cypher eluded her and even the servant's rumours had grown strangely silent. Now; after that infernal bird had sent another letter to her husband, he had called for Ser Rodrik and Maester Walys and spent the rest of the day locked in his Solar. After they emerged, the maester went to the rookery and the master-at-arms to the barracks. What followed next was akin to a call of war.

The rookery seemed to explode in a blast of feathers as Ravens were sent to what appeared to be every castle in the North. The training yard was no longer silent at any time of the day as Ser Rodrik endlessly drilled fresh levies as though in preparation for war. Her husband spent his days locked in the solar, and whenever he was free, he spent his time wandering around the castle or in the God'swood.

Ravens returned in response after a few days and what followed was a painful repetition of the Greyjoy rebellion. The castle was bustling but the dining table was subdued. Even Greyjoy seemed to have quietened the last few days (an improvement in her opinion). For a moment it seemed that the tension in the air might fade but it didn't last. She could blame the thrice-damned bird for that.

He grumbled at the bird (who was apparently named smoke) and picked up the parchment. That was apparently the signal he was waiting for as he gently woke her up. At the break of dawn, she stood in the outer yard possibly watching her husband leave. He kissed her dutifully, bid his children and the bastard farewell, delivered instructions to the staff and the guards who remained behind and marched away. As they disappeared, over the hills, she could almost swear she heard wolves howling in farewell.

* * *

What followed the next few days left her terrified an extent unseen since the days of the rebellion. House Bolton had apparently declared rebellion and under the cunning leadership of Lord Roose Bolton, had made the Northern forces bleed heavily for every inch of land. Rumours floated of how the Leech Lord had hired sellswords to do his dirty work; of how they left the villages on his own land burnt to husks if they dared to shelter Stark troops, how bodies were used to poison their own wells and of how the heads of scouts would be left outside as a warning.

When reliable news came of how the Dreadfort was burned to the ground, word spread of how in his last act of defiance; Lord Bolton's mad bastard had hired assassins to punish those who put him down. She knew what that meant even if the men on the field didn't. She spent countless sleepless nights hovering over her children's beds, not daring to close her eyes lest she awaken to find them stained in blood. Her vigilance paid off, but not in a way she had ever expected.

* * *

She had always been suspicious of the bastard, more so now than ever before. Being Brandon's son, he had more reason than anyone to see her children dead. She knew that the boy was a friend of Robb's but what value would that hold to a bastard against the most powerful seat in the North? His recent behaviour just added to her suspicions. While before he would do his best to stay out of her sight, something which she admittedly favoured, now it seems that he had stopped caring completely. Before her husband left, he had been heard remarking in her presence that the boy seemed to spend every single waking hour training.

From what she could see, that was an exaggeration. He actually spent less than half of it there, with the other remaining hours being in the Library, climbing the walls or apparently vanishing into thin air. A part of her wished that he would fall during one of his climbs, break his neck and be done with it. It would have been preferable had he not lost every sense of deferment.

While he would cower in her presence in the past, now when she saw him it always appeared as though he was in a trance. On multiple occasions, he had ignored any expected acknowledgements of her presence, whether it was the expected greetings to someone of her station or even his typical look of fear. It seemed that he had stopped caring and had it not been for her desire to spend as little time as possible in his company, she would have thrashed him for his impertinence. Sooner or later, he would prove his treacherous nature and it seemed that the day finally came.

 **The Bastard**

He could hear the voice in his head sniggering as he slipped and fell _again_ from the wall to the discrete and rather flattened pile of hay placed underneath it. Gritting his teeth, he got up, stretched again and started climbing.

The walls of Winterfell were old, worn down by the years and cold so that there was no shortage of convenient hand or footholds to use in climbing. However, the voice in his head, the sixteenth of his kind had pointed out that he was getting far too comfortable with the unchanging routine and so, he should challenge himself. In hindsight, the owner of the voice must have been rather bored when he suggested this as it seemed that he enjoyed the sight of Jon falling off the wall over-and-over again in the most embarrassing of ways. This accursed wall had drawn his ire for having the misfortune of being built by a competent mason. Unlike the rest of the castle, this section was far newer, probably built after the conquest and the handholds were barely big enough to jam his fingers in. He was literally hanging on by his fingertips whenever he climbed this wall. It wasn't just that however. Even with the hay below, the fear of falling was always there, dragging him down and freezing his limbs when he needed them the most.

' _What's wrong Butterfingers?'_ "Stop calling me that! This is harder than it looks." _'Actually, it looks just as hard as it really is. As I told you, my Old Man used to make me do the same thing when I was near your age. Oh, how I long for the days when I had an actual body.'_

Jon wasn't sure whether Clay whatever-his-family-name-was was actually joking or not and it didn't seem like something he could just ask. In hindsight; he probably heard his thoughts and already knew about that. "How did you make it then?" _'Bury them deeper.'_ "What?" _'You're thinking out loud. Even if I wasn't in your head, I would still be able to read your mind just by looking at your face. Bury your thoughts deeper, compartmentalise your mind if you really want privacy. Put layers between your thoughts and your expressions, the more the better. There will be time for that later on.'_

"Um, thank you. About what I thought…" _'Don't worry about it. I wouldn't have thought you were worth teaching if you didn't have the ability to question. Now, this is something I want you to repeat every time you feel yourself slipping, got it? Now, repeat after me…'_ He repeated the words again in his mind over-and-over again. There was a creed, an order and a will hidden in the past, but in the future, he would create his own.

' _You did well kid. Next week I will have a visitor come over; a new teacher for you. He'll teach you about climbing trees and maybe even a bit of hunting.'_ "Oh, ok." It was somewhat surprising that he had grown rather attached to a voice in his head. _'A voice which might not even be real'_ his thought added. At that, a small chuckle could be heard inside his head as the voice continued, _'Oh, I'm very real kid. Next day, whenever you finish climbing this wall, I'll pay you a visit and we'll see whether or not we can meet. Be seeing you kid.'_

A part of his mind seemed to be silenced after that as he felt the presence melt away from his mind.


	9. Chapter 9: Bloody Seas

Bloody Seas

 **The Old Captain**

The seas ran red tonight and he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so alive. It was quite likely that he would not survive and the same could be said of the little cub next to him. However, he certainly didn't plan to go down quietly. A part of him wondered whether it scared them, the Volantenes to go up against a suicidal enemy but then it wasn't exactly the time for polite conversation.

When it came to fighting; the Tigers were no rabble or half-trained household guard. Earning the stripes wasn't easy; requiring devotion and obedience as well as skill to a ruler which didn't consider them human. He had carved his own stripes out of his face when he joined the cult, but he could still respect their devotion.

However, the respect was much harder to maintain as one of them threw their spears right at his head. That one actually glanced off the helm he wore under the cowl, barely an inch above his right ear. He didn't have to bother killing that one as Qebui jammed her blade through the right side of his head and out of the other side. There was hardly any time to talk as three more tigers appeared to take their turns to die.

A fool lunged and swiped at him with a spear. He barely acknowledged the man as he grabbed the haft and deflected it sideways before driving a knife through his neck. A part of him was remorseful at the act, but he reasoned it was better served as anger towards the noble families of Volantis. After all, it was their stupidity that was causing this bloodshed.

Tigers were formidable guards on land and more than decent soldiers for war but they were inept as sailors. The leaders of Volantis in all their wisdom refused to use them to sea before. It wouldn't do to give their best and most expensive swords a chance to break free and form their own Braavos. It was quite possible that this was the first time they ever set foot on a sea-faring vessel and it showed. When the Sea Shade collided with the lead vessel, they didn't even know how to brace properly. The extra seconds gained as they tried to get back up made a lot of difference. The Tigers were falling but not quickly enough and the boarding party was getting overwhelmed. If they wanted to kill the Admiral, it had to be now.

Qebui apparently heard his wishes as a sudden shriek cut through the noise and for a second everybody stopped fighting as they looked towards the direction of the sound. Qebui held the ridiculous headdress common among the Volantene nobility in one hand as the other was paused a few inches from the wearer's neck.

' _Why did she stop?_ he wondered for a second until he looked clearly at the headdress and the long hair of the wearer. _'A decoy. The cowards used a decoy. Damn them all to every hell in existence!'_ Another wail brought him out of his bitter thoughts as he saw the seemingly grateful woman embraced Qebui in apparent gratitude in the midst of war. There was a glint and he suddenly realised what was going to happen before it did. The decoy's hand moved downwards and there was the sickening sound of a knife cutting through flesh. Blood spurted from Qebui's back where a dagger was lodged as the decoy raised her arms in an apparent gesture of victory.

The Captain didn't really know how it happened, but one moment he had grabbed a spear and in the next moment it was lodged quite firmly where the decoy's left eye had been. To add insult to injury; as she flailed in her death throes, she fell off the ship's bridge and landed spear first on the deck of the ship. Her neck snapped and the spear drove sideways through her skull before tearing off a big piece of it and spattering the soldiers around the body with blood, bone brains. She must have been quite important because after that the Tigers apparently wanted to stop fighting, a sentiment which the rest didn't seem to share.

' _Just my luck, to end up fighting against sell-sails with some backbone'_ , or it could have been the stink of gold set upon their heads. Either way, it would be a good time to escape. He reached a pouch on his back, gently grabbing the contents without crushing them.

Smoke pellets had their uses, but finding the appropriate moment was another matter; the ingredients were expensive, the shells themselves delicate, the effect was not limited to one side and water would tend to negate its effects. It was a one in a million chance, but you only needed one.

A haphazard throw, some luck and an unfortunate sailor in its path resulted in the deck being covered by smoke. He waved a torch through the smoke yelling "fire" in as many tongues and voices he could think of before panic took over. In the chaos, he clambered up the deck to reach the bridge to reach Qebui when a blast of air knocked him off his feet.

He could taste the blood on his lips as he tried to sit up, only to be pushed down. He almost struck instinctively till he spied the cowl. He tried to speak but she held up her hand, urging him to be quiet. He would have dared to ask why until he saw the coming out through the smoke; a bloody ship with black sails. The silence had come to visit them.

 **The New Captain**

To any ignorant fellow islander, the Silence was a lean and terrible ship, painted red with blood and without peer among the vessels of the isles. None of them truly knew about the true strength of the ship. The Shard he had discovered in the Grey King's hall now hidden in the prow; it let the ship ram clean through the strongest vessels, the hull, created from one of the Northmen's white trees which made him invulnerable to arrows and his latest acquisition. There would be time to see it carefully later, but for now; there was blood to spill.

It actually surprised him; how easy it was to attack them. The Volantene fleet had apparently forgotten the purpose of lookouts as every one of them aboard their pitiful vessels had their eyes trained on the battle, completely ignoring what lay behind them. Whatever that vessel was, it would be a fine prize. His little abominations handed him the skull, and with no small amount of enjoyment, he inserted the vial and peered into its eyes…

 _It was pure chaos and madness aboard the deck; tigers, sailors and sell sails running around with no rhyme or reason. Suddenly, half of the view turned red before the sight faded._

Annoyed, Euron pulled out that vial and inserted another one.

 _The world was covered in smoke as in the distance, the strange vessel was seen ramming another vessel almost head-on and shrugging it off before sailing straight at the one behind it, leaving the first one to sink. The observer was clearly in a fury as he gestured to increase speed and board that vessel. It was one of many who did and in response; the vessel apparently let loose some sort of artillery present above deck. The seas around them were covered in smoke and as the observer breathed it in, he coughed up blood and died._

' _Two vials wasted',_ he grumbled in his mind. Whatever secrets that vessel held was clearly something valuable. If he was in a better mood, he would have planned it out, but that wasn't the case. Two blood samples of the oldest lines of Volantis wasted. He probably would have killed them anyway but only after they outlived their usefulness and when he decided it was time to do so. The people aboard that vessel took away his control, and he couldn't allow that.

He gave the signal to attack and the abominations followed willingly. Had he ordered them to set themselves on fire and jump aboard the enemy ships, they would have done that too, unquestioningly. The silence sped forward, and like its namesake, it was almost inaudible over the waves. The first vessel was a fat cog, probably a trader with a belly which strongly resembled that of a suckling pig.

Silence tore through the belly, ripping it apart while barely slowing down as the bigger vessel sank. He repeated it again, and again, and again… and by the end, the sea was choked with wreckage and bodies. A few fools tried to jump or board the silence but ended up as bloody decorations on his prow. Far more went down with the ships though not by choice; Volantene ships tend to keep their slaves chained to the hulls and to the Volantenes, rowers were cheap. The Drowned God would have nothing to fault him for tonight, let her feed in all her insatiable gluttony. For him on the other hand, a finer prize awaited just ahead.

The other vessel had rammed the lead ship and somehow latched on to it. What appeared to be a crow's beak stuck on a wooden beam had held the other ship in place. Smoke filled the air and some fool brandishing a torch dropped it in panic, right on to a barrel of pitch. The pitch caught on fire and the fool tried to throw the barrel overboard and instead causing it to break and explode setting him on fire. The sight of the fool covered in burning pitch screaming was the funniest thing he had ever seen in the past week.

Admittedly, it was less funny when a splinter of wood lodged itself in his eye. Pulling it out, he could feel the membrane tearing and ripping apart as the splinter was dislodged. _'To exchange one spare eye for a third; and they say the Ironborn can't trade'_ , the voice in his head called out and he would have agreed if he was in a better mood. Now, however, he was furious and the only way he would ever be in a better mood was to gut every hooded and cowled bastard on that ship.

His eye bled freely as he howled and jumped across to the other ship, taking two of the sailors there by surprise. _'Sea shade'_ he read the name out. _'Well, if there ever was a sign, this was it.'_ His grotesques had followed without hesitation, only to end up being killed. It was clear that they were certainly not untrained levies or slaves. It was a pity; a slave could be bought but they probably would prefer to die fighting.

He didn't bother to cover his eye, knowing that the sight would make even the bravest of them cower in fear. The grotesques in the first wave were killed so instead of fighting as what most civilized men would call it, they instead swarmed over deck using their teeth and nails as much as their blades. The knowledge of slash-and-parry was a small comfort against an enemy who was willing to beat you to death with their own dismembered arm. The sound of men screaming as they were devoured by Brindled Men and Gogossi was sweeter than any music to him.

* * *

He went below the deck to inspect his prize when he found…nothing. The holds held no artefacts, just some grains, fruit, steel and what appeared to be a crate of books. The smile on his face died at the sight of books being what he had lost so much for. He didn't scream; that had been beaten out of as a child. In cold fury, he picked up a torch and lit it, quite willing to burn the ship down and everything it held. Prize be damned, this miserable hull and the prophecies had ruined him, if he was to fall today, he would take them all down with him.

As he started to set the crates on fire, smoke suddenly covered the deck above. It suddenly became quiet; the screams and all could still be heard, but they sounded muted. There was the sound of feet landing quietly on the deck, followed by the unmistakable sound of bodies falling. He climbed up and daring a stray blade looked outside. To his shock, the world was covered in grey. Unlike smoke, it seemed that the air itself had thickened and screams turned into whispers. His men could be seen through the haze as they collapsed just by a touch of the hooded men. One of them turned around and ordered one of the sailors who started to drop torches into the Silence's hold.

He snapped at the sight and with blood and shade coursing through his veins and vision turned bloody red, he ran roaring towards the hooded men in a suicidal attack with his sword extended. The first stab was aimed at the gut of the closest man, which to his surprise, just deflected. He hadn't realised that they wore actual armour but before the man could raise his hand, he leaned forward and grabbed his nose and bit down.

Warm blood sprayed out in a small fountain over his face, heating his own as he brought his sword up and jammed it through the screaming man's mouth. That worked far too well as the sword apparently got lodged somewhere in the spine, forcing him to give it up. Shoving the still twitching corpse away, he picked up a large axe and flung it at the closest man. He had seen his men die and knew what would happen if they managed to come close enough.

' _Don't let them touch you, don't let them touch you'_ , he repeated to himself as he used a hand-axe to cut open the man's head which the larger axe had failed to do. An arrow brushed past him close enough that he actually felt it but he barely noticed it. Two more followed; this time lodging into his shoulder armour. Irritated, he picked up a throwing axe and flung it in their direction. The shoulder wound had put his aim off as it apparently stuck the man in the leg as he fell off the rigging. Euron finished off with his boots what the axe couldn't.

It was really satisfying, to kick the man to death for what his kind did to him. As what remained of the person lay twitching and he raised his foot for the killing blow, _another_ arrow hit him, this time in the back of the knee. As he looked around, he noticed how fucked up he truly was. The hooded men had broken free apparently, with no small contribution thanks to him and now, they would either reward him or bend him over and bugger him to death. Looking at their faces, a reward was unlikely in his future. The idea that he would be dying soon was quite liberating actually. Picking up a blade, (he wasn't quite picky as long as it was sharp) and cursing every god and priest in existence who brought him to this, he smiled and spoke, "let's start then, shall we?"

 **Pakhet**

As what remained of the cult looked down on the madman who brought down a fleet single-handedly, the bloodlust among them was palpable. Had it not been for the old man, they would have torn him apart with his bare hands.

Somehow, the old man had survived the madness in a good shape though the same couldn't be said of his pupil. Nobody would have dared to strike first, not unless the Captain let them do so. The captain had long since passed his form of blustering anger, instead, replacing it with cold fury.

"What's the matter then, are you going to make me die of old age?" the madman replied. The rest couldn't help but cringe at the rashness of such a taunt, though the fool would probably mistake it for a sense of fear.

"What do you imagine would happen, that we would be foolish enough to attack a madman, an Ironborn at that?" "Are you craven, old man?" "Actually, I'm brave enough to avoid being baited by you. Contrary to the beliefs of youth, there is a fine line between bravery and suicidal stupidity. I would tell you to discuss it with your crew, but you don't have one anymore."

The Ironborn captain gave the ugliest smile she had ever seen in her life, not helped by the gaping hole where the eye should have been. "Why don't you come closer and say it then? I'll give you a _thorough_ demonstration of my beliefs."

The old man didn't bother to reply as he gave the signal and an arrow lodged itself into his other knee. The man cursed and tried to reach the Captain but the signal had already been given.

The man swung wildly, not noticing the stranger coming to claim him from behind. Qebui had taken a beating which would have killed most men and yet didn't show the pain. The Ironborn turned around and for his previous actions; he was thrown off his feet and a spike was rammed into what remained of the Captain's leg.

As he lay screaming, his face looked like he had seen death itself and upon looking at Qebui's face, it was not without reason. They grabbed what they could from what remained in the hold as they boarded the smaller lifeboats. In the distance, she could fancy spying the dragonmont.

As they abandoned the burning boat, they could still hear the captain screaming.


	10. Chapter 10: The Old Ones

The old ones

 **The storyteller**

There was trouble brewing across the sea. It seemed that the idiots in the cult couldn't keep their stupidity to themselves as apparently, someone among them had the bright idea that burning down a Slaver's armada somehow meant "hiding in plain sight". At times like this; he almost missed the Island, almost.

After being stuck for a literal eternity in oblivion, the inside of people's minds was a welcome change, though not in all cases. Viserys for instance; was excellent when it came to killing off his crazed nephews and at ruling but his stupidity could not be imagined when it came to judging his own children. Novices found it easy to say the words "Everything is permitted" but they didn't really understand it. He didn't, not until he advised a man, a decent man to allow his crazed nephew to starve to death in order to prevent religious genocide. Too bad kinslaying was still taboo only when it came to his children.

Aemon was too bloody proud to do what was necessary. He had no qualms about cuckolding his brother ("love" as he called it) but couldn't draw up his other sword to stick it to his other sibling. The second part, "Nothing is true" was learnt following those years. Aegon might have been right about Daeron after all, but people would disbelieve anything said by a king whose claim in history rested on setting the lowest limit of expectations for any ruler on the Iron Throne. Daeron though was the first decent mind he saw for a long time until the glory got to his head and swelled his ego. Being a peacemaker it turned out, was no guarantee of sense.

Anybody with common sense could have seen the rebellion coming off from a mile away, so of course, the entire family was caught by surprise. He would have advised him, but "the great diplomat" preferred to listen to advisors rather than the only voice of reason inside his head. The rebellion spread further and had it not been for his son Baelor and his half-brother Brynden, black dragons would be flying over the Red Keep. He switched hosts after that to the more promising heir, which is until his fool of a younger brother literally knocked him out of his head.

For a change of pace, he decided to enter the first head which caught his attention. As it happened, little bald boys were really rare and to his unending irritation, boys with royal blood apparently found it in fashion now to run around bald. Admittedly, it was a refreshing change of pace away from the city. He had almost forgotten what fresh air smelled like at that point, so he was actually content to just shut up and enjoy the ride.

The entertainment wasn't lacking either, as that miserable excuse of a knight he squired for provided an ample source of it. Though he could avoid having to watch Egg boy wait on him as he bathed, the sight of him chasing down chickens and peasants in wicker was the funniest thing he had seen in centuries. Just for that, once in a while, he would feed him little tricks and tactics of swordplay to improve his skills. All that effort to turn him into a competent swordsman and all he got was a glorified tablecloth strapped between his shoulders for it. Typical kings.

Even with that, it seemed that the little Egg was the best student he probably had until his own children fucked it all up. Egg or "Aegon" as they now called him was even on the worst of days a clever little boy in a man's body rather than a talking crown with an overgrown prick under it. He couldn't bring it to himself to "convince" Egg about the steps necessary to secure his dynasty and so for a moment of weakness, tens of thousands would die, even though he didn't realize it at that time.

When Jaehaerys the spineless came to the throne, he gave up trying to make the line of crazies look competent so he decided to shut up till they died off. It would have worked had it not been for those fucking eggs. They corrupted Egg and created the madness which would doom them all. Two generations of madness followed, of burning men and harp playing siren songs which started wars through indifference and insanity. In one of his unending life's little ironies, he found his next host in the place which would bring an end to them.

* * *

The existence of Harrenhal was an offence to reason by the one who conceived it and by those who foolishly tried to preserve it. As his withered old host lay cackling on the dais, he switched his mind between him and his son out of boredom. It turned out that even after more than a century of inhabiting madmen, he could still be surprised.

He always suspected Rhaegar of having no real interest among women, a belief helped by his choice of companions. Apparently, Rhaegar was more oblivious than most people suspected, or he was a heartless bastard like _he_ suspected based on how he let Lonmouth and Connington jump through circles for him. The mad prince, as he would call him in time, was rotten to the core. There was an obsession in his mind, regarding prophecies and legends. Worse, he truly seemed incapable of differentiating between stories and reality.

The first Aerys had a good substitute for ruling, but _now_ there was no safety net. He couldn't advise him inside his head; it would just drive him on his father's path. So in desperation, he looked through his eyes. What he saw there wasn't encouraging.

* * *

In this hellhole, women, in general, were one step ahead of livestock in value. He was actually surprised to see a bold one among them. Lyanna Stark, the Wolf maid or the Wolf bitch as she would be known to history did have a way of drawing the eye. She hid quite well, weeping to songs like the empty-headed ones scattered in any court and yet breaking cover by emptying a pitcher of wine above her fool of a brother. That moment brought him back to his more peaceful days with egg and he couldn't help but take a liking to her. For the second time in memory, he jumped to another host on impulse, but with far more tragic results.

Lyanna was Read come again, albeit a bit more self-centered and ill-disciplined. He regretted hosting in her mind every step of the way south and was more than tempted to jump into the weirwoods, had it not been for what rested there. He thought he knew of agony when he saw his hosts die, but it wasn't until he was trapped in the Tower from hell that he knew what agony was. It was hate which brought him into an alliance with the Wolf girl, hatred over the mad prince.

* * *

In one of his natural little selfish impulses through his unnaturally long life, he jumped to the first host he could find, one whose mind wasn't the realm of painful self-loathing which was Lyanna Stark. As it turned out, he should have considered a bit more deliberation here, as stretching out the mind of a toddler wasn't the best of ideas. The child's mind, however, learnt to cope with it and given enough time, he started imparting his lessons again. The rest as they say; is history.

 **The hunter**

Occasionally, when the air grew still and the only sound was the scraping of a blade or the scratching of a quill, he would hear the quiet drumming. What he had heard in his life, the seemingly endless drumbeats of his childhood village, the beating of war drums across a sea of corpses, even the occasional tavern drum of his adult life was now imprinted in the back of his mind.

They weren't really irritating, but that didn't mean that he welcomed it either. At least the fact that he could change the weather on a whim meant that it didn't wear down on him.

The little habits of his mortal life which passed down to his immortal one were what he cherished the most. It was strange how the little things; the repairs, cooking and cleaning, hunting and riding, all the duties which he no longer had to do was what kept him sane. Yet it didn't work for him to dwell on the past, he would carry this responsibility, and bear it to the best of his ability.

* * *

Speaking of which, as he sorted the books (a snap of the fingers would have accomplished that, but he preferred the personal touch) in the upstairs library, there was the sound of knocking on the manor door. He couldn't help but smile that even after weeks of tutelage; the little cub still didn't feel comfortable in his own mind.

"It opens," he called out and heard the door opening followed by the quick patter of a child's steps up the stairs. He sensed the boy's presence without turning around and beckoned him to follow.

They entered the main corridor, past his own room (almost never used anymore), into the trophy room with the adjoint balcony. The little trophies of his own life; the paintings, the tea chest, the models and even the occasional medal was still there, gathering dust and hinting at stories which may never be told.

On the table was the ship. He caught the boy admiring it and knew that sooner or later he would find a way to try and replicate it. Some of the fondest memories of his life were aboard that ship and with the proper mood settled on; he conjured two cups of tea and some chairs.

The boy had seen stranger things by now and was clearly comfortable drinking the concoction. He reminded himself to start his education on poisons on a future date. In the rare moment of peace for both of them, he picked up the book he had brought from the library and pushed it towards the boy.

The boy took the hint and read the title. "The En…En…cy…clo...pe…dia". "…of the common man. The encyclopaedia of the common man. A mouthful of a title, yes but quite illuminating. A lot of work went into it, but I personally think it was worth it."

"You know who wrote it?" "I would say so, yes. Better than anyone else. I meet him regularly." "When?" "Well, I see him every time I look in the mirror for instance." The look of understanding on the boy's face was priceless and he probably didn't conceal his amusement very well, as the boy grew flustered and started reading. The embarrassment gave way to confusion following his reading and he knew the questions that would be coming.

"Master Connor?" "That's just Connor to you. You are not yet even a novice. The fancy titles have to wait." "I'm sorry. C-Connor, why would you write a book about _smallfolk_?"

"Good question; it's because I could." "I don't understand." "That's why it was a good question. If you understood it right away, there wouldn't be any reason for me to explain. Try asking yourself, why not?" "Why not?" "Exactly, why not write a book?" "Because they're smallfolk! No nobleman would want to read about farming!" "Why not?" "Because nobles don't care about farming." "Why not?" "It's not how it's done." "Why not?" "Because it's just is."

A cuff on the head followed the last statement. He quietened, more surprised than hurt. Except for a few remarks in the yard, he had never seen much reprimandation. "Every time you use that phrase or some form of it, you have lost your argument. Remember that."

The boy nodded quietly and he couldn't help hardening his resolve at the sight which would have undone him. The boy needed a teacher more than a friend at the moment. "Are you ready for your second story?" The boy looked up and nodded quietly before remembering, "yes, Connor."

He chuckled at that and continued, "it seems just like yesterday that the old man was trying to drum his lessons into my head. Now, for me, the change in roles is strangely satisfying. Where to begin… well; I was a youth at the time, barely older than your father after the rebellion. The old man called me into his study, or solar as you call it and showed me this book."

"I cared little for it at the time, my goals were limited to hunting down my enemies and protecting my people. 'A tale worthy of the songs' fools might say. I went through hell and back accomplishing the first, but the men I allied with had different ideas for the other. They had their own goals, they just didn't align with mine."

He couldn't help but stop at the memories, still fresh after centuries in this ethereal form. "My village, gone and all that was left to me was a decade of painful memories, a lost family and a duty I wasn't sure I could finish."

He tapped the book, "This, was just a hobby of mine, something to pass the time. There were settlers in the land, _my land_ whom I found by accident or fate on my journeys. They were kind enough to let me observe and the closest I had to a family outside my village. The old man knew of the loss which comes in his line of work and didn't want me to end up like him. He still found a way to teach me from beyond the grave."

"I was an assassin, master of hiding in the crowds and working from the shadows, and yet I could never truly fit right in."

He could hear the comment before it was spoken aloud; the boy still hadn't completely grasped how to hide his emotions. "It wasn't the clothing or the weapons or even my work, it was the idea. To me, they were all the 'others', the outsider to myself and my people. It was me against the rest of the world. Of all things, it was a farming guide which taught me differently. I would spend hours, observing my neighbours while trying to avoid disturbing them. Did you know what I realised?"

The boy was unsure whether he was supposed to and yet he only delayed slightly before replying "No." "They were my people." Seeing the look of confusion on his face he continued. "My birth people lived, well not unlike your hill clans, but we had no Stark. Every year, our lands would be taken against our will and my people driven off by the very people amongst whom I lived. I more than anyone, had enough reason to hate them until I realised the truth."

"I had read a library's worth on the lives of other people from other lands, but only when I paid attention that I realised the simple truth, that they weren't puppets on strings dancing on a storyteller's whims, but people not much different from me. They were all outcasts, like me. We held little prejudice amongst ourselves as it would be impossible to do so since there were as many differences amongst them as they were to me and mine. We were all the same because none of us was."

"They weren't the men who marshalled armies and burned villages down. They were just farmers, potters and hunters who just wanted to live in peace, like my people. Take away the randomness of birth and various deceptions that highlight it then we were all the same. My enemy wasn't a person or a group, it was ignorance and prejudice and my allies weren't just my apprentices, but my people, Kanien'kehá:ka or people of Davenport it made no difference, they believed as I did, and in the end that was what mattered."

"The act of simple observation taught me more than a dozen books could. Kings and lords look at humanity and see numbers, I chose to see people. There was never an 'other' boy, it is an illusion. My 'people' were just that, a people, not limited by birth or fortunes. It was only, in the end, did I realise that. I hope for your sake, that you realise that."

The tea had finished at that point and conversation lightened and yet, the boy still seemed tense. To lighten the mood, he suggested that they go for a run. Opening the balcony door, he leapt on to the nearest branch and perched there, waiting for the boy to follow.

"Remember this Jon, here in your mind, there is always a convenient branch to climb onto."

 **The Banker**

As the boy fell asleep _again_ , he couldn't help but ask himself why he was tasked in teaching banking to someone who scorned the implementation of the mind outside of knowing where to stab with a blade. The hunter had praise for the boy, going out of his way to expand his vision and both the watcher and captain had expressed interest in continuing his education, at some later date so he couldn't help but complain that he was tasked with a duty he clearly didn't want.

His son was the one who was tasked with the duty and in a situation which he didn't dare to imagine, the boy found him in the bath. Mario and the rest of Monteriggioni spent the better half of an afternoon berating him for the carelessness. To make matters worse, in a disastrous attempt to lighten his mood, Ezio appeared more or less near his age and suggested that they partake in a street fight. A knife in the wrong place resulted in the boy fading from their midst. The next time he appeared; Ezio threw a mummer's folly to cheer him up. One terrible choice of casting resulted in Ezio being chased by a boy half his age armed with a knife as his mentor looked at the incident with a terrible smile on his face.

After that incident, Ezio was forbidden to teach him until a later time and the original subject; that of banking was handed over to him.

The boy had fallen asleep _again_ and he had to wonder how he could actually _miss_ trying to teach Ezio. To be fair, he had a keen eye and a decent mind and he was a decent influence on Petruccio, however, he had little talent with numbers. He woke him up again and wondered how anybody could sleep while _dreaming_ and continued on. It took roughly about half a dozen sentences before the boy started dozing again.

* * *

"I cannot teach him." His brother barely looked up as he spoke, "then we must write a letter at once! The pope deserves to know, bastard that he is that miracles _do_ happen. The great Giovanni defeated by a boy young enough to be his grandson!"

Giovanni knew better than to respond to that, Mario wasn't exactly the stablest of people when intoxicated. He tried a different tact. "He doesn't belong here." "In Purgatorio?" "In Monterrigioni, he can be one of us, but not by our methods. I can teach a Braavosi fine, but by our standards, he is two or three centuries behind us." "From Connor's standards, he is _half-a-millennia_ behind him."

He was treading on a thin edge and he knew it. Since the incident with the mummers, Connor was not exactly on friendly terms with them. "I respect the man, unorthodox he may be and I say that with the utmost respect. Our brothers and sisters across the sea were wiped out to a man, his 'unorthodox' methods allowed us to recover, but that's the point. He is used to having apprentices of all shapes and sizes, but when was the last time we had apprentices outside of the Free cities?" "I don't often see you backing down from a challenge." "It's a duty, Mario, one I feel that others can do far better than me."

Mario finished his wine and got up mumbling something which sounded almost like a prayer. He stopped and replied, "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

When he saw the boy next, Ezio was sitting him on a chair and telling the stories of the great Urbino as he sat entranced at his feet. The boy clearly couldn't figure out who the old man was. The sight of his son looking old enough to be his father was always bizarre to him. Ezio looked at him and spoke, though no words were uttered, "I cannot teach him to be a banker father, but I can inspire him to learn for himself."

 **The Politician**

For the uncountable time, he wondered what he was doing here. Death was supposed to be the end, an end of the duty which cost him so much, serving an uncompromising belief which gave no quarter or comfort for the weak, and he felt very weak as long as he could remember.

More than once, he had heard of this place being referred to as purgatory, but he knew better than to accept that blindly. Say what you would about the Assassin' their ideas were certainly, interesting. All in all, it wouldn't have been so bad had it not been for the company; countless cowled heads with eyes always judging from the bright shadows, never truly seen and never truly ignored.

That was bad enough, but to see the dead again was worse, his allies weren't here, except for Holden and his sister, who couldn't help but point out that all it took was the end of the world for him to get along with the Assassins. That was half a century ago and he hadn't talked to her since. Like all of them, he was given a role; the amoral statesman with a talent for shattering one naïve set of beliefs to be replaced by the one of their choosing. His students were… varied, though most of them would be hopeless in his time.

When he cared to, he wondered why they didn't get one of their own like Mirabeau to teach their recruits but most of the time he couldn't care enough to do so. The act of teaching was one of the few distractions afforded to him and he wasn't inclined to lose it.

* * *

He heard the door of the tavern open and the boy enter. "You're late," he remarked, drinking the surprisingly good ale and waiting for the boy to reply. "That would be difficult to accomplish in a realm where time has no meaning." He snorted at that and remarked, "you're learning. Who taught you that, Ezio?" "No, Connor."

Well, today was full of surprises. His face must have betrayed that thought because the boy continued, "I've seen most people mistake his silence for stupidity. I am not most people." "Really?" The boy nodded and continued, "there was a mummer's show in Monteriggioni the last time I came here, the mummer who played his part sounded like a puppet and they dressed him up in feathers. Even Master Mario was insulted at that."

At that moment he wished that he hadn't been more of a recluse for that sight would have been worth his stay here. If only Connor could have seen it. Before he could ask, however, "I haven't seen Ezio since Connor saw the folly. An old man has taken his place there."

He chuckled at that, "Leave it to Connor to drive off a master Assassin from his own home for an unintended insult." "It wasn't Connor, Mister Kenway, it… it was me." A hand moved faster than the boy could see and cuffed him on the back of the head, "is the meaning of 'subtlety' lost to you, boy?"

The boy was clearly chastised but Haytham wasn't the kind of man to ever discard a teaching moment. "I asked you a question, do you understand what 'subtlety' means? Look me in the eyes when you answer." The boy looked up with some effort and met his eyes and replied, "I do, Mister Kenway."

 _The boy has courage, after all_. "Tell me, exactly what you should have done." "I should have tried to stop it." "No." "I should have confronted Ezio?" "No" "Giovanni and Mario?" "No." "Madam Maria and Claudia?" "Tempting, but no. It's not a person you should be calling. Before acting in an unknown situation, what should you have done?" "Scout the surroundings?" "Close and not incorrect, but no. Is that the best you can come up with?" "I can't think of anything else except setting the stage on fire."

 _Now that would be a sight worth seeing._ "You may be related to the Targaryens boy, but that doesn't mean you should start emulating their actions. Especially not that of someone called 'The Mad King'." The boy sighed and drank from a mug which appeared out of nowhere. For a moment his parental instinct kicked in and he almost knocked the mug aside till he remembered that the boy probably wouldn't be affected by that, being in the land of the living and all. "I remember, sir. Nobody really lets me forget that. I didn't mean to burn the mummers sir; I only meant that the fire would scare them off." "No doubt countless fires have had someone say that in some form or the other. The objective hardly matters now if you botch the execution. My associates learnt that the hard way, you can try asking Connor for more details; no doubt he would love to regale you with tales of your exploits. Again, what should you have done?"

"Unless I ask Connor, there's not much that I can think of." _Close enough_. " _Exactly_ , you went chasing through the streets after one of the most dangerous men of Italy to defend your Mentor's honour. Tell me this; did your mentor order you to do it? Connor has faced far worse than that and has learnt to avoid mistaking everyday actions for insults. It is very unlikely that any insult was meant by Ezio Auditore of all people, especially towards another Mentor. It's very likely that your actions embarrassed him more than the play did. If you are as promising as I've heard, you've probably realised that by now."

The boy apparently did as he seemed to look for another mug to drown himself in. Seeing the potential habitual problems that could come up, he deftly removed the mug as it materialised and replaced it with a stack of books. "Enough of the brooding boy, my son might be a good influence on you, but I hope that you don't take in _all_ of his traits. Now, let's begin."

That's when the hard work began.


	11. Chapter 11: New beginnings

New beginnings

 **Akohsera:ke yoweras**

Faulkner would never let him forget the fact that the day he first stepped foot on the Aquila, he screamed like a little girl. He tried justifying it by pointing out that he had never seen a ship, much less an ocean, so to suddenly end up materialising on the deck of a moving ship and expect him to act like a sailor wasn't exactly fair. The argument sounded reasonable to him but a handful of little mistakes scattered along their journey, (calling the ship a boat, calling 'her' an 'it', mispronouncing her name and mistaking Faulkner for a common sailor to name a few) didn't exactly endear him to the man. So even after half a dozen voyages of differing lengths, he was always 'the little green cub' to the crew.

Connor, now Master Connor to him wasn't exactly sympathetic. He told him of how he had taken to sea and c _aptained_ it successfully just after the first voyage and that he expected his pupil to do the same. He had conveniently forgotten to mention how he had nearly given himself away after confronting one of his targets in public. When he asked Faulkner about it, he spent the next journey clinging to the sides of the Crow's nest, hoping to avoid falling off. Even glimpses of cities with strange names like Alexandria, Hong Kong and London didn't tempt him to perch like a bloody bird and admire the admittedly stunning view.

The lessons with Haytham were certainly becoming better, with Haytham's biting wit having lessened in sharpness and almost becoming pleasant after he expressed his disgust at Connor's predecessors in his order. He knew that the man hoped that he would carry on his ideals and in principle at least, he didn't disagree. In practice, however, he agreed with Connor's view that high ideals weren't best suited for execution at the hands of hypocrites, bigots and greedy men or in other words, Haytham's inner circle.

From the moment he knew what irony meant, this situation was the one which defined it for him; the worldly practical father, with his idealised view of his order and its members without completely acknowledging their failures and faults and in contrast, the idealistic son who took a more realistic approach to his. The father scorned men's weaknesses and yet failed to see that or at least, adjust for those weaknesses in his whereas the son who was an idealist at heart knew all too well of the limitations of his comrades and yet cared for them all the same.

At times, this almost felt like a home, and at other times it felt like hell.

* * *

What happened in Monterrigioni could count as one, not helped by the scolding he received from both Master Connor and Haytham, though the story is better told elsewhere, the time he climbed his first tree, only to be knocked off by an eagle and fall, the street-fight in Firenze, having to smell the shit covered roads of Boston and the nearly unbearable odour of Venice and Rome. Having to bury the dead at Acre was almost an improvement and there was the slight compensation of watching a furious Connor chase down the one-armed man who assigned him the duty and threatening to de-feather the old eagle if he ever tried something like that again.

* * *

For once in his life, Jon felt that he belonged, and it wasn't in his exile at Winterfell. There he was a Snow, a bastard son of the greatest lord of the North. Here he was just Jon or "Connor's boy" or "the lad" among the people. He may live, or at least pretend to live on the high house on the hill, but whenever he wasn't studying or training he would be found living among the people. Master Connor didn't mind or at least didn't mind enough to complain about it. He was even encouraged, or in other words, subtly ordered to revisit his mentor's memories. Seeing the idyllic life here, he had imagined them to be the same, he was wrong.

The act of chasing and herding pigs was undignified, yes, but there were no whispers of how it was undignified _for a lord's son_ so they did have a laugh about it in the tavern. Beating up the drunken husband of one of the female inhabitants alongside the others made him feel almost like a knight out of the songs for a moment until he realised that such violence wasn't out of the ordinary in the world.

He had to carry a wounded huntress back to the manor as she teased him mercilessly of how he blushed like a maid. He had met her before and admittedly was not exactly comfortable enough to talk to her but he would never admit to blushing. Later that day she revealed to him in the tavern that this was the best choice she had for not starving, short of joining a brothel. When he asked her why she didn't marry, she replied that she could never see a difference between the two except for the lack of freedom and payment in the latter.

Seeing the scandalised look on his face, she revealed that what happened to Ellen wasn't unique and that had she defended herself, no matter how justified, the world would vilify her, "so answer me this, how is it different from slavery then?" The man they had in place of a Septon gently reprimanded her by reminding her of her own marriage to which she conceded that she was luckier than most, but that the point remained, something which the old man couldn't deny. After that, he would wish for the rest of his life that his little sister wouldn't have to marry. He died for the first time, in an admittedly undignified manner at that soon after.

He was re-living the rescue of Lance from a few bandits who had tied him up and were hanging him off a cliff. Twice he nearly died that time; the first was when one of the bandits _accidentally_ hit him in the face with his boot as he reached the top of the cliff, causing him to fall. The fallen snow was thick enough to cushion him however and so he climbed again.

Going quietly, he tried to stay careful this time and pulled the first man by the foot off the cliff, something which was ruled as an accident by the rest. A knife to the back and two arrows took care of the rest. Again, he felt like a hero until he started to pull Lance up. However, he had underestimated the man's weight as the rope cut into his hand and slipped. Lance would have been at the foot of the cliff by then, had the rope not been fastened to the horse as well. The irritated horse tried to bolt-off, pulling the rope and a crying Lance O'Donnell with him. The man was too incoherent to speak but was more or less unharmed.

Jon went to retrieve the horse when it wheeled around suddenly and kicked him in the face. Jon had hunted wolves, buried the countless dead, killed bandits, rescued people, even tried his hand at farming and writing and in the end, it was a horse's kick to the head which killed him. He woke up soon after.

 **Pakhet**

The next few days were spent with Pakhet doing her best to try avoiding Qebui. A part of her remembered the screams of the burning man, another part was still uneasy looking at her bruised face and yet a small part of her was feeling guilty of the fact that it was her arrow which gave away their position.

To be honest, seeing her bludgeon a man unconscious after being beaten half to death didn't make it any easier. She could have continued that indefinitely had Osiris not caught up to them on the fingers. Their common mentor was a lot of things, being unobservant wasn't one of them. After a few drinks among the crew, including the captain, she was certain that he was aware of the story.

So there she was, perched on a rocky outpost overlooking Gulltown watching the sunset. She was exhausted, starving and chilled to the bone and yet the view was worth it. After all that had happened, it would be so easy to just take a few steps and end it all. It was tempting, but the view was even more so. As she enjoyed the rare moment of peace, it was broken by the unmistakable whistle of an arrow. She lowered her head and picked up a shield, only to see the arrow sail _above_ her head and hit an overhang, showering her with sheep pellets.

Pride wasn't something she was likely to fight over in a deadly situation, but she wasn't going to let the sound of laughter go unnoticed. Hurling a rock in the direction of the arrow, she waited for a response only to have somebody approach her from behind and wrench the shield from her grasp and bring a knife to her throat. _How in the seven hells does he do that?_

Osiris looked down at her with an amused grin and said, "You're becoming careless m'lady. Try to keep up." She didn't deign to reply, instead picking up a vial and cracking it against the cliff while holding her breath.

The sudden plume of smoke allowed her to break free, but there wasn't much room to manoeuver. A pointless attempt, as an edge of the overhang cracked and she started to fall. For a moment, she felt weightless but then time caught up to her.

She would have remained a footnote in their order's history and a stain on the foot of the cliff had it not been for a convenient branch which broke her fall. Osiris looked down at her, fear giving way to amusement and annoyance. "You just proved me to be true. Now, are you done trying to get yourself killed or is there a convenient tower somewhere you want to leap out of?"

She saw red for a moment before calming herself down. "As a matter of fact there is, but I don't intend it for me." The man grinned at that and lowered a rope for her to climb up. "While a journey with you alone might be tempting regardless of the destination, but in your current state; even climbing some stairs would be too risky."

She didn't deign to reply to that with words but with a sheep pellet aimed at his head. He dodged and responded by pretending to release the rope. She tried to avoid showing any hint of fear and kept climbing. Now that any semblance of peace was lost, she resigned herself to the conversation which was to follow.

He handed her a small wineskin and waited till she drank before asking, "A lover's quarrel is it?" She nearly choked at that remark before steadying herself. _I'll see you drowned in wine for this_. "The last man who tried that on me ended up with a red smile." "We both know that it's not a man that I'm talking about." "Then you also know that there is no such thing between me and her." "Yes, but the actual reason for the estrangement between the two of you bores me, so I try to imagine something more interesting. Like, say, if you bedded her married brother the Warden of the North or even better, you found some fascinating Lysene men in a Tavern and refused to share or…" " _It bored you?_ " "Pardon?" "I am not on speaking terms with your apprentice, and the reason behind it _bored_ you?" "That's better, and yes, it _bored_ me. When we are the last of what remains of our order, a schism between its members deserves a far more exciting tale than the squabbles of children."

 _Who are you and what have you done to Osiris?_ "What _happened_ to you?" "Me? Well, I heard a jest, that's what happened." "A jest?" " _Nothing is True, Everything is permitted_. If nothing is true, why believe anything, and if everything is permitted, why not chase every desire? Seeing how we have probably been reduced to piracy, it's a fitting question for us."

"I know the words, every novice does. I still don't see how that is a jest." "Of course you don't my dear lady. The words are not the jest. The jest is that it was never meant to be taught the way it was done to us. For centuries, it was staring us in the face and yet we never realised it. So I must ask; do you really want to know the jest?"

Her breath caught at that, the knowledge of why they rebelled against the cult was to be given to her. A part of her was wary of the idea that it wasn't justified, of how an erroneous belief might have caused her to be hunted for the rest of her days, yet this wasn't an actual decision, there was no choice here but to know whether their little rebellion was justified. _So much for everything being permitted._ She nodded. "Good, but first of all there is an inn by the dock which serves the best Sisterman stew I have had, and even the end of the world wouldn't keep me from it."

* * *

 _He wasn't wrong about the stew_ she conceded, _but I have yet whether he's right about everything else._ Still, the stew was worth the climb, though it was quite likely that she had caught a chill and would have collapsed had it not been for the smell of fresh food. "If I die now, I would die content. If it does happen, carve only a bowl and a wineskin on my headstone. That would be the epitaph I would want."

He smiled and replied, "Very well then, I'll keep that in mind, now let's begin. Here's something you should know, the first true mentor wasn't the first." She regretted not emptying the wineskin; otherwise, she could have blamed it for what she was hearing now. "Well, that was an under-reaction. As I was saying; mentors existed before him, some of whom deserve that title and others who are best left forgotten. The words themselves precede the great mentor by centuries of his time. He was the first, however, to rediscover the true extent of the words' meaning and one of the first to rebel against the pre-existing order of the time. I did the same recently, so that's why we're here."

"That's not much of an answer." "Pardon?" "You referred to a hidden meaning to what is to most Westerosi, house words. Most do have some meaning behind them, yes, but the way you describe them makes them sound like magic words which when uttered would grant the speaker universal knowledge. Tell me everything or none at all, these half messages are better reserved for warlocks and fortune tellers."

A shadow passed over Osiris's face and he smiled at that, a smile which could cut steel before replying, "As you wish m'lady, but a word of advice, you might want to remember that we aren't in Dorne anymore." A heavy pause followed this, unbroken on both sides and in the end, Pakhet replied stiffly, "I am aware, Master Osiris, I apologise for any insolence in my part and I hope that you can forgive me."

"A bit too formal for you, but alright. Let's see what you have to say about the rest of the story. 'Nothing is true', that was far more literal than he ever imagined, for it was _his_ mentor, who plotted to bring upon their downfall. Like us, the strictest devotion to the mentor was expected of them and like us; there were always a few who thought differently."

"Like the true mentor?"

With a scoff, he replied, "'The true mentor' was an arrogant prick who got an apprentice killed and his friend his right arm through his arrogance, and that's putting it mildly. His predecessor would have been well within his rights to execute him, but he wasn't the kind of man to waste talent."

"He spared him?" "Not exactly, he gave him a supposed second-chance to prove himself. He was sent to assassinate several of the highest ranking members of an opposing order, something which the mentor likely wouldn't have risked in any other condition. If he succeeded, then they get rid of several powerful enemies, if he failed, they get rid of an embarrassment. Do you see where he went wrong?"

"No." "Neither did the Old Mentor. He knew that the opposing order wouldn't exactly be content to just hand over power, but not to what extent. Their leader, with his dying words, actually helped him by revealing the truth about the old Mentor, who well… the story gets confused here but it ends with the old mentor dead as far as I know." "An interesting story, but what exactly does that have to do with us?"

"History repeats itself. Their order had fought for what we believed in, but due to unending strife, it had got corrupted from within. Due to their unerring obedience, they couldn't identify this corruption and it nearly led to their ruin. Our order nearly had the exact same thing happen to it over 200 years ago, but that's a story for another time. Our failure to protect the princess during the rebellion alienated us from most of the country and we grew desperate. Amun and Ra couldn't agree on the course of action and they ended up dividing the order. Horus lost favour with the Prince and Set tried to kill him and Isis. They are both in hiding and most of the order is either in hiding or dead."

The day had suddenly gone darker and Pakhet had forgotten that for all intents and purposes, they were nothing more than merchants. The straps on her wrist strained from the force of her clenched hand and it seemed that Osiris actually stepped back slightly at the thought. Wanting to prevent drawing further attention to themselves, he took back the wineskin and handed her an ale horn, just to give her something firmer and safer to grip onto than the wineskin or a blade.

After a strained uncomfortable silence, she continued, "Who was responsible, who started this? I wanted the name of the bastards who drew blood against one of our own and broke the order. Serving the order has been the only relevant goal I've had in my life Osiris, so when I'm done drinking, I'll drive an arrow through their eyes." "A rosy viewpoint child, but no single person, bastard or otherwise has that honour. What happened wasn't a single act of evil but a collective act of stupidity. Leave the talk for vengeance when you have successfully gained the ability to walk and then… we'll see what happens."

The world started to fade and she didn't remember what happened after that.

 **Wadj-Wer**

"Who was responsible, who started this? I wanted the name of the bastards who drew blood against one of our own and broke the order. Serving the order has been the only relevant goal I've had in my life Osiris, so when I'm done drinking, I'll drive an arrow through their eyes." _Well, the common suspect is a pointy piece of steel, a generous helping of stupidity and fools to wield it._

He had started to consider the little novices worthy of the cowls and blades, but seeing her promises of vengeance and the inevitable stupidity to follow, he was having some serious second thoughts about that. _Not that it would do me any good, we need every blade that we can get._ A shipful of exiles was all that was left of them after the purges and he had no desire to return to the clutches of the first will.

He watched as Osiris half carried her to the room upstairs, ignoring the jeers of the scum around them. He treated her at times like a daughter and at other times like a lover and he couldn't tell which one was worse. There would be time to talk of that, but not when they were running for their lives.

* * *

Osiris returned after a few minutes, the burden of his actions more clearly visible in his actions now that he was out of their sight. The old captain (the past few months had aged him to the point where he had actually caught up in appearance to his age) had ordered another ale by then, and then another for their leader who clearly needed something to keep him together.

"Where to now, captain?" he asked, not without a hint of derision in it forever. Osiris, however, was either too tired or too apathetic to care. "I'm not the captain, you are. I have far more important things to do than state the obvious just to vindicate you. So stop wasting my time and get on with it."

"Not pretty enough for you, eh? Do you think if I tightened my belt and thrust my bosom out you lot would be a bit politer to me? Mind you, Dornish free-spirit aside, I am only interested in someone who has a twat between her legs but still, I could do with the friendlier company."

Osiris grimaced at the image and the old man could imagine the images he was trying to forget. As if to confirm, this was followed by a large drink of the rather strong ale. "Get to the point."

 _Touchy, aren't we?_ "Very well, here's my point; what the fuck are we doing here? Also, if you are planning to bed one of your apprentices, just tell them your intentions outright. You know as well as I do that they have much more than air between their ears, so stop treating them as your playthings."

He had flushed red at the second part but before he could retort, the old man cut him off, "before you decide to pull ranks boy, remember that I was assassinating people while you were puking your guts out as an apprentice, on the Greenblood no less. I have lived longer as a member than you have lived overall."

"I wasn't going to pull ranks, _old man_. Not that they matter anymore. I have no intention of bedding my apprentices, either of them. I am still a member of the brotherhood, regardless of what you believe and I know better than to do that. More importantly, our brotherhood in Dorne is dead. What's left of it is an abomination and for all our sakes, I hope that we don't visit them anytime soon."

 _An abomination? The boy has a poet's heart after all._ "What then? We need someplace to settle unless you plan to live on the open sea and start burning down armadas every other week just out of boredom." _Having said that, it sounds really tempting._

"No, we do what we have always done; relocate." "To where, Witch Isle?" "No, that would be the first place they would look for." He pulled out a map and pointed to their location. He moved his finger slowly to the North, "Sisterton?" "In another time, yes, but all we have is what we carry with us. I would not risk our brotherhood being snuffed out at the hands of pickpockets of all people." "Wolf's Den?" "Too well guarded, it's a prison after all." "White Harbor?" "Lord Stark may be indulgent to his sister, but I'm not exactly on easy terms with him and I'm not willing to push his generosity." "Widow's watch?" "Not unless you want to wipe out house flint." " _Skagos_?" "Unicorn is an acquired taste, but the Magnars wouldn't take kindly to it." His finger kept moving up higher and higher, past the lands of the new and old gifts, even moving past Eastwatch till it settled on a bay. A label was there, smudged into near obscurity signifying what appeared to be a settlement or what remained of one.

As he realised what it was, he regretted buying ale for Osiris and not enough for himself. No person should have to hear this sober. _Is Valyria still an option?_ He must have said it out loud as Osiris folded the map and finished his ale. "Cheer up old man, you always did enjoy the Summer Snows. You can be certain of finding that at least in Hardhome."


	12. Chapter 12: The Lord of Winterfell

The Lord of Winterfell

"Must you leave so early my Lord?" lady Leona simpered on the parting day as Ned was mounting his horse. "I'm afraid so my Lady. The duties of wardenship wait for no man and it has been far too long since I've laid eyes on Winterfell."

Lord Manderly let out a rumbling noise from the depths of his throat which seemed to pass for a chuckle, "Quite understandable, Lord Stark. If I had a wife as fair as yours, I would be reluctant to ever leave her chambers, much less New Castle." Most of the household restrained themselves but Ned could spy the beginnings of a grin on Lord Manderly's sons. For all the talk of Manderlys being a 'Southern' house of the North, they seemed to have picked up some of the habits from their Northern kin, admittedly not some of the desirable ones either.

Ned knew that it could be taken as an insult or a friendly jest equally easily and he didn't know what it could be. At times like these, he couldn't help but suspect that even after so many years he was still being tested by his lords. He did what he could do best in the situation and stayed silent. For as long as it took.

It didn't take very long as the fat lord of white harbour appeared to realise that he might have overstepped himself. The silence had stretched on as Ser Wylis and Marlon looked nervously at their lord father and yet not daring to speak themselves. Lord Wyman himself appeared lost for words and Ned couldn't help but enjoy this rare moment of quiet.

Lord Wyman tried to speak, but whether it was an apology or explanation, Ned wasn't willing to give him the chance. He let out a small chuckle which gave way to a laugh which would have done Robert proud. For a moment, he could have imagined himself as Brandon laughing along with the Fat lord but then forcibly reminded himself that he would have tried to bed half of the servants and maybe even Manderly's daughter within the first week.

"I agree My lord, but there is more to life than simple pleasures. Duty, my lord, it waits for no man and so I must heed its call." The relief on his face was palpable and for once, he was content to listen quietly without an interruption. He tried to speak up again, but Ned wasn't willing to lose the advantage here.

"I expect the same from my lords and they have done so quite admirably. Except for Lord Bolton of course, but an example has been made there. I hope that it would be the last I have to do but still, it's never a good idea to tempt fate. As I said, my lord; duty, so I must now bid you farewell. I wish you a prosperous summer and good fortune to you and your kin. Farewell."

While he was distracting them with words, he had mounted his horse and at the last word, turned around and rode away with his guard in tow. He could distantly hear Lord Manderly wishing him farewell over the sound of hooves but didn't turn around. For a moment, he could understand why the lords of the South liked their games. In the outer court of the Merman, he had displayed his power without the need for bare steel or the glint of gold. He reminded them of their place and had done so with the smallest whisper of a threat and a subtle reminder. He held power there, the power of a crown in all but name and he liked it.

Not for the first time did Ned regret his decision to ignore Lyanna's relentless badgering to build better roads. She had admittedly better teachers among her order, but that didn't make what appeared to be her attempts at ruling through him any easier to bear. She would go on-and-on about new devices and practices taught to her by the 'old ones' and would fill pages with half-scribbled drawings and instructions. The only one who seemed more irritated than him by this desecration of paper was smoke, who had the unenviable burden of flying from one end of Westeros to another with them.

Still, she wasn't exactly wrong about the state of the roads, though the description of them as 'glorified mud tracks' as she claimed sounded a bit like an exaggeration. Up North, they were _well-trodden_ mud tracks.

The sound of the horse shitting on the road broke up his recollections and without an inn in sight; he signalled to make camp for the night. Soon the smell of burning wood masked the offending smell and the low crackling and light of the fire allowed him to rest his eyes and dull his mind. The men divided up the rations generously provided by Lord Manderly's household and he could hear their sighs of contentment at the variety available. Tonight, they chewed on salted pork and potted beef on stale bread instead of just salted beef.

Ned himself hadn't eaten much and yet, all he dared to consume was a drink from a small flask of watered wine. There were wolves in these woods, he didn't know how he knew that, but he could sense them. If it came to a fight tonight, he didn't want to end up shitting himself in front of his men.

He dreamt that night of being a wolf; the world was grey and yet both sounds and smells were both a thousand times clearer. He could smell and hear the snoring of his men, horses and himself. His pack wasn't really hungry and yet, every pack has its share of reckless fools. The younger ones wanted to attack what appeared to be such an easy target, but the elder ones who had survived such encounters were wary. He…it too was wary of the dangers posed and turned away for an easier meal, preferably one without steel claws and skin. Further off, half-a-hundred creatures of the night called to the heavens as they carried on with their lives, free of things as petty and trivial as crowns or wealth.

Further off, there was a small lake with a small group of hovels around its shore. _Fisher-folk_ , the human presence in its mind called them but to them, they were just easier targets. The human presence reacted violently against such a decision, but it wasn't in control anymore. The others were circling the houses, wary of any traps and sniffing out scraps from a midden heap.

One of the pack members poked its snout through an open window and a shriek followed. An old man with a pointed stick strode out, brandishing a pointed stick. Another wolf came around and encircled him and finished the job. By the time they began eating, the voice had shouted itself hoarse. Food was food, whether on four legs or two.

The pack leader suddenly looked it in the eye and for a moment, it seemed that it could see...him. The alpha bared his teeth and lunged, only to be met with a crossbow bolt through its eye. Men came, riding out of the forest, but these men were different. They wore red and carried fire. The pack scattered then, knowing better than to go after men who had steel claws.

The men circled the hovels and one of them started to speak. The leader barked a command and they threw the fire onto the hovels. When people tried to escape, they were cut down. A child was pulled off from the body of a female and thrown into the lake He didn't resurface. A female was cowering, protectively holding onto a human cub, _a babe_. The men laughed and one of them pulled them apart. The one who held the babe threw it into the fire, and as the shrieks of the mother and child, a shriek so painful that for a moment the wolf was a man and it wanted to rip them apart, another one drove a spear through the mother's back.

Whether the human inside was always fighting or whether that act compelled it to fight the wolf would never know. All that it was aware of; was that something had forced it to cower into its own mind as something strong, terrible and unknowable took over. The wolf knew then why, why cubs were taught to fear man. If this was the mind of man, then what good was claw or fang against something as terrible?

What happened next could not be told accurately from the view of wolf or man. The Bolton men were doing the work of raping and pillaging as their lord instructed, after their defeat, the wolves in their limited capacities or by the helpless lord trapped between a dozen different minds somehow commanding them with cold fury.

The soldiers _had_ chased the wolves off and yet with no warning or compulsion of their own they apparently attacked. To any sane observer, the _unnaturalness_ of the situation would be quite clear. Without a howl or a whimper, they circled the men. Being night blind, hot-blooded and a shade drunk, they didn't stand a chance. Either jumping from the shadows or through the flames, both ways they took the men with surprise. Yet their attacks bore none of the efficiency of a hunter. There was something truly malevolent in their attacks.

After disarming the men, in some cases quite literally, they proceeded to take off bites which would hurt wound and disfigure, but not actually kill. Noses and ears were lost aplenty, so too were fingers and in the end, before they could bleed to death, the wolves selectively gelded the soldiers.

By the time the fires had died down and the Direwolf banners could be seen, the pack had left, with more than one member pissing on the bloody remains of half-a-dozen men.

It had long been held that consumption of wine on an empty stomach, over-consumption of rich foods or just starvation would play havoc with the mind. A simple explanation for Maesters of how the so-called gift of prophecy seemed to be limited to begging brothers, fat Septons and drunken priests. If only they had bothered for an explanation for how such habits could brighten the senses as it seemed to be in his case. There wasn't an explanation either for how he had somehow split his consciousness and merged with the minds of a wolf pack to do what he did.

It didn't help that he admittedly and shamefully enjoyed it. He had tried to justify it, but the end result still had to be bundled in sackcloth as none of the guards could bear looking at it. He had seen Ramsay and his followers' remains in White Harbor and had thought then that it was the worst thing he would see in this rebellion. He was proven wrong within a week. Had he told anybody about it and even more unlikely, even if somebody believed him, outside of the abject horror of talking to a warg, he couldn't imagine them sympathising with the dead men. They saw the remains of the small village, the burned remains of the babe and its mother and the bloody remains of the other. More than one of his men had spat at the soldier's corpses and he didn't have the heart to forbid it. It was inhuman, barbaric and cruel and he enjoyed every moment of it.

Despite the smell of fresh spring grass he could smell and see smoke in the air the closer he got to Winterfell. As he nudged his palfrey, Ned could almost taste the ash in the air, though for some reason his household guard seemed to be unaffected. He tried to calm himself down, knowing that over the next rise, he would be able to see Winterfell again. It's strange how inviting the tedium of lordship could be after the strain of the past few weeks.

Suddenly for a brief moment, the colours of the world became dull, followed by them brightening beyond what any human being ought to be able to see. As he drove his horse forward, ignoring the polite queries from his guards, the taste of ash in the air was so strong that he felt the urge to spit. After an agonizingly long ride, Winterfell came into view, surrounded by flames from the burning remains of the Winter-town.


	13. Chapter 13: The Lady of Winterfell

The Lady of Winterfell

 _The Bastard is climbing the walls. The Bastard is training against the captain of the guards. The Bastard spends his nights in the Winterfell library. The bastard corrects the maester in their lessons. The bastard has tamed Lord Stark's raven. The bastard is a spitting image of Lord Stark. The bastard… the bastard…_

The whispers could be heard day in and day out about Ned Stark's bastard and the very latest of his accomplishments. It seemed at times that the North would never forgive her for not providing House Stark with an heir who looked the part. Robb was far too young to mind, and to her chagrin, seemed to idolise the bastard like the rest of the smallfolk.

He had put him on a pedestal and seemed determined to succeed or at least catch up to him in at least some manner. Though for the sake of appearances she couldn't exactly complain about the time he spent in his studies or the training yard (though not for lack of trying on the latter), when Robb got the idea to climb the walls she had to put her foot down.

Even after repeated warnings, Robb was still insistent on perfecting the act and all her warnings ended up doing nothing but making him sullen and bitter. In the end, she was surprised when he actually came forward and apologised while promising to avoid climbing from now on. The feeling was marred a lot when she realised that it was the bastard who convinced him to do so. She hadn't stooped so low as to take his leavings.

Still, after the stories spread of the crimes of "the Bastard of Bolton", there was a chance now that Ned could be convinced to see reason, to allow the bastard to if not leave, to at least foster somewhere else. She had to hold on to that hope.

She had fond memories of the great hall, most of them involving the quiet meals with the family, though she did recall that a not quite small part of the memories did involve the private celebrations between her and her husband following a banquet or two. Still, that was not suitable conversation for a meal and she knew better than to let such lewd thoughts escape during the meal, especially since that was the last kind of influence her unruly daughter could need.

Barely a year old and little Arya Stark was already more than a handful. Between the countless number of times she had made sweet little Sansa cry and had done her best to raise the dead by screaming through the night, she had also apparently decided that anyone larger than her was an acceptable target for her fists and legs. Anyone that is, except for the bastard himself.

The gods do love their cruel little jests, here being that of all her family that she could have turned to, her youngest daughter turned to be closest to the one that she had no blood to share with. A part of her knew that it was selfish, but every time Robb so cleverly pointed out how much they looked alike, of hearing that from the servants, even Sansa herself daring to ask that question to her, a part of her heart would break and she would wish for that boy's death. She would wonder if the boy had never been, if Arya wasn't the only child who looked like a Stark, if Ned had an heir who looked the part, would he ever love her then as much as he seemed to love this other woman that he never spoke of. As always, the boy would be there to cruelly remind her of the truth. She hated him for that. Speaking of which…

"Where's Jon, mother?" that was Robb, her sweet boy. She tried to delay answering the question, though she knew from the looks that Arya was giving her that it wouldn't just be ignored. "Mother! Where's Jon?" Robb insisted with Arya joining in, "Jon! Jon!" Those might have been her first words, but she wouldn't know. The bastard had been there to hear her first words, not her.

"I don't know Robb. That doesn't excuse you from your meal. Finish it if you intend to go look for him. If Snow intends to miss a meal, on his own head be it." Robb knew better than to question the tone and began eating, though Arya still seemed unsatisfied. She pitied the Septa who would be given the unenviable task of turning her into a lady.

She made a note to herself to remind the kitchen staff to keep the pantry well locked. _That would probably be futile however, as the cook would probably feed him himself_ , a voice in her head reminded her. Still, she intended to savour these small victories.

Her head felt full as she regained consciousness, dimly aware that she was in her room again. The memories didn't come quite as easily though, from what she could gather; the meal left her feeling unusually full and sleepy. She remembered leaving the hall and passing through the corridors and a yard before ending up here.

Her mouth felt dry and there was no pitcher on her bedside table. She called for a maid and yet, no one arrived. She called again and again and again and yet there was silence. She called for a servant, a guard, Robb even and yet there was no sound. The worry came then, but fear was still to come. She got out of bed, somewhat surprised that she was still wearing her dress from dinner and walked haltingly towards the door, the uncomfortable position and garment she had worn to bed having left her somewhat unsteady.

She unlocked the door and opened it quietly. Walking without the benefit of a candle, she hit her foot on something. Bending lower, she recognised it to be a foot, a foot belonging to one of her escort guards who was lying unconscious in a heap near the door. The other guard seemed to have managed to move some significant distance away though it wasn't necessary to check his state. The puddle of blood under him and the shadow of the wound on his neck made his state quite clear. Now was the time for fear.


	14. Chapter 14: The heir to Winterfell

The heir to Winterfell

 _How does Jon do it?_ When he was younger, he had a ridiculous notion that being a lord's son meant that he could do as he liked. A few tantrums in the training yard followed by a few hard knocks on the head had cleared up that misconception quite quickly.

Now that he was older, it seemed that it didn't extend to just what he wanted to do. Jon had been secretive about how exactly he trained, about what allowed him to suddenly gain eyes on the back of his head, the ability to command his arrows to always hit the mark or to put spiders to shame in the acts of climbing.

He had tried asking and Jon shrugged in reply by saying that it must have something to do with blood. Starks didn't win the largest kingdom in Westeros with words after all, and their recent ancestry had boasted a Blackwood and a Flint. Robb replied that if that was the case, based on appearances at least he could beat Jon in swimming by having trout blood in his veins. It seemed that Jon's weekly supply of laughs was exhausted after those words, followed by Jon knocked him into the dirt continuously for the next hour. Robb had insisted that Jon shouldn't hold back or let him win out of courtesy or pity and Jon was quite willing to follow those commands to the letter.

Those were good memories, which didn't quite last. His mother had taken it upon herself to shadow them both for some reason and while she didn't object to the sparring or shooting, his suggestion at climbing the broken tower had left her fuming.

He hadn't remembered ever being more embarrassed in his life as his mother had dragged him by the ear back through the yard and straight into his room just after promising to send Jon to the wall if he ever gave her son any more such dangerous ideas. After that, she had the audacity to come to his room and explain about the evil nature of all bastards and of how she was protecting him from all that. He didn't speak to her for a day after that.

Robb was no fool, he knew that his mother didn't see eye-to-eye with Jon but he couldn't understand it. Snow or not, Jon was like a brother to him and the rest of the family (excluding Sansa) agreed.

* * *

The quiet breakfast was the first time since then that he dared to speak to his mother directly about Jon. He had hoped that time would have softened her views but it just seemed to have hardened. As he left the table in search for Jon, he was glad that at least _he_ didn't seem to hold a grudge. He collapsed just after that.

* * *

He was being carried across a person's back, slung over the shoulder with hands and feet bound. He tried to scream but a gag muffled the sound. He tried to open his eyes and look around but then realised that what appeared to be a sack cloth was tied over his head and body. He tried to struggle and break free and in response, the person carrying him hit his head against a wall. He would have screamed, but his head felt far too heavy to protest.

He felt himself being thrown into a cart. The stench of horse, piss and hay was overpowering, not helped by his face being pressed against the hay soaked in it as the cart started moving. Even with the overpowering smell however, he could faintly smell smoke in the air and what sounded like screaming. _They're burning the castle!_ He thought wildly, but remembered that he had no idea who 'they' were.

He could hear the cart driver cursing as it jerked to a halt, which was followed by arguments. Grunting as loud as possible, he started to jerk and kick against the sides of the cart. The arguments outside stopped for a moment and he could hear footsteps approaching. In desperation he started to kick again against the sides of the cart.

The footsteps stopped close by and the sound of fabric and the sudden light on his face told him that the cover was thrown off the cart. "He's here!" a familiar voice yelled out from above as the sounds of blades being drawn was heard all around the yard.

The sackcloth over his face was removed by a guard who proceeded to quickly cut his bonds, only to be stabbed in the back by another guard. Robb grabbed the knife and lunged at the traitor, who responded by grabbing his arm and twisting it backwards. In pain, he dropped the knife and saw the man pick it up and swing. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, ready for the blow but it never came. Instead, the man shuddered and slumped against him. He opened his eyes and saw an arrow poking out through the man's chest.

The man heaved and another arrow erupted from his throat, spattering Robb in blood. Robb looked at the direction from whence it came and saw Jon, on the roof, atop a parapet, drawing a bow and wreaking havoc on the traitors below.

Jon looked at him and pointed in the other direction, gesturing wildly. A part of him was indignant, that while Jon fought alongside the men, he had to run, but the voice of reason (which sounded like Father) argued against it. He was unarmed and unarmoured, without a higher ground and heavily outnumbered. Listening to reason, he ran.

He could hear footsteps running after him though they were often accompanied by a whoosh as another body fell with an arrow lodged somewhere precious. He ran to one of the inner gates, but for some reason it was closed. He turned around, blade ready for the few who remained standing. It seemed that Jon wouldn't be the only one to get the glory today.

Suddenly a shrill cry, something akin to that of a bird-of-prey went up and reverberated throughout the yard. For a moment, he felt himself freeze at the sound but before he could respond, a dozen guards of Winterfell turned the corner and attacked without delay.

Two foolishly attacked and ended up being impaled and left to die noisily, the rest opted to surrender, though they weren't completely unscathed either though broken wrists and bruises would be the least of their problems.

"Are you alright Lord Robb?" asked Martyn Cassel, removing his helm. The captain of Winterfell's guards looked worse for the wear; with a black eye, a bloody nose and a few missing teeth and bruises to show and yet he was still smiling. "Thanks to all of you I am, though I would have preferred to kill at least one myself." The guards chuckled politely at that. "I'll keep that in mind Lord Robb. I'll make sure to spare one for you the next time."

There was a sudden sense of unease in the air, but as he tried to ignore it, one of the assailants suddenly broke free and lunged at Robb with a knife, only to crumple to the ground with a broken collarbone as Jon landed on him from the above parapet. "You weren't paying attention, Ser Martyn. A spear isn't ideal in close quarters, especially against hired knives." Jon had apparently leapt from the parapet above after jumping and running around the two sides of the yard without being spotted, after shooting a quiver full of arrows and yet didn't sound out of breath.

He was preparing to move Jon away so that he could force the truth out of him when the guards suddenly raised their spears and pointed them at him. He had a dozen spear points around his neck and yet, he didn't falter.

"What is the meaning of this, Ser? My brother saved my life and you respond by threatening his? Explain yourself!" Robb knew that he had far exceeded his authority by outright _demanding_ an explanation and yet, words once let loose cannot be called back. "I too, am curious about this action Ser Martyn, can you tell me how do you justify this?"

Cooler words were needed here and apparently Ser Martyn was of the same mind as he replied softly, "I am truly sorry for my actions my lords, but these _are_ my orders. Lady Catelyn ordered us to arrest Jon Snow, on grounds of treason and conspiring with the Boltons."


	15. Chapter 15: The Bastard of Winterfell

The Bastard of Winterfell

There he was, tasked with recovering the Carpenter's tools; something he thought would be easy until he visited Boston for the first time. The smell of shit nearly drove him to his knees, or it would have had it not been for the fact that it would just end up with shit stained knees that way. He asked questions and followed and listened to conversation and in the end was just glad to get on the roof away from the smell till he heard the sounds. There was the sound of crying in the room right under him, followed by a slap, a child crying and the unmistakable sound of a drunken man. He barged in through an open window, an eight-year-old in the body of an eighteen, dark-skinned and cowled man and tackled the drunkard. The man crumpled after hitting his head against the wall but as he turned to accept thanks and praise, he was instead pushed out of the window by the hysterical woman, right onto a haystack which broke his fall.

All the luck in the world seemed to be on his side until a patrol passed at the exact moment. A few minutes later with half a dozen red-coat wearing men at his feet, a musket volley took his head off. He woke up just after.

Even now, after spending weeks in the other world (days here in the real one), dying there never came easy. For the briefest moment, the pain would be real and no matter how many times it happened, violent deaths weren't something he could get used to. He would have gone back in but a hand shook him roughly and woke him.

"Time to wake up Jon." A voice called out and He looked up to see and Ser Martyn Cassel and his squire and son Jory standing over his bed. A wooden plank with a ragged blanket was a poor excuse for a bed but he had learnt to be thankful for Lady Catelyn's small mercies.

"Are you here to execute me Ser?" "No, Jon." "Then could I kindly go back to sleep? I dreamt of being murdered there by some very angry guards and at the very least, they didn't make me wait." "What are you implying?" "There is no implication here. I'm just stating the obvious. We all know the penalty for treason. I hope that the people here have a better view of me than just a bastard but the one person who I'm sure of wouldn't see that is the one who is going to be judging me. The fact that I'm innocent would hardly matter to her. So rather than just wasting time with these theatrics, let's get it done with."

With no small sense of satisfaction, he could see the effect of those words on Ser Martyn. In any other situation, he would have pitied him, but the unfairness of the situation made him quite content to act as the vicious bastard. "You are not going to die Jon. Maester Luwin, Ser, Rodrik, Jory, Robb and I and half of the people here have spoken in your favour and she has agreed to be merciful." "Let me stop you, Ser Martyn. I know what you would consider mercy and I would say to you and Jory in confidence that the block is a better mercy." "Jon, there is great honour in…" "The Night's Watch? Yes, but in those days; Winterfell had Kings, Direwolves didn't bow to Stags or Dragons and Trouts knew better than to swim too far."

"Jon, you aren't making it easy to sympathise with you." "My intention wasn't to garner sympathy, Ser Martyn. It wouldn't do me any good in this farce of a trail. If your intention was to convince me to accept this, you are sorely mistaken. Now unless you have anything else you want to say to me, please leave me alone, I would hope that my next dreams are a bit more pleasant."

That got some amount of rise out of the man, only for him to clamp down on it and present a face devoid of feeling. "Very well. Get up Snow, your trail begins in a few minutes." _Of course. Ser Martyn wouldn't have come here just for some pleasantries._ "As you wish, Ser. Are the chains really necessary though?" "Protocol, we would not want to do anything improper." _Your views on propriety confuse me, Ser._ "Of course, we wouldn't want to be improper. Very well, lead the way Ser, let's get this over with."

In the great keep of Winterfell, for probably the first time in centuries, if not millennia, a member of House Stark in blood if not name was held for trial. Moreover, in an unprecedented act, this was led by the wife (a _Southron_ wife as many there liked to emphasize in whispers) of the ruling lord or king. Many whispered that it set a dangerous precedent and some spoke about how the Tully woman ("Trout bitch" being one of the less insulting names given to her) had no rights to judge a Stark, even a bastard at that. Many more were insulted at the idea of a northerner being judged by a southerner, their silent outrage conveniently letting them forget that both were born south of the Neck. This would have defined judgements in the North for centuries to come and no matter the decision; the ramifications would not be pretty. In the middle of this oncoming storm stood the bastard of Winterfell, clamped in chains and utterly bored out of his mind.

At least there was no lack of intelligent conversation. Speaking of which… _'I have to hand it to you boy, no matter what you do, you try to exceed expectations. So when you fuck up, you exceed anything I could have imagined.' Don't give me all the credit, leave some for the Trout bitch there._ The voice sniggered at that, _'True, true. At least on the bright side, judging from her posture her arse is so puckered tight, when she makes you kiss it, the hole might be invisible.' I have no intention of doing that. Either I end up dead, or humiliated and the second isn't a choice for me. Either I walk out with my head held high or on a spike. "If it ends up on a spike?" I'll make sure to burn her house to the ground._

The trout in all her finery of grey, red and blue ( _the direwolf stands alone, you fool. You aren't making any friends here_ ) stood up and proclaimed the beginning of the court's session. Right on cue, Jon yawned, loudly and longly. He made sure that everyone had quietened down at that so that it could be heard at every corner of the hall and then some.

Lady Catelyn turned her murderous gaze towards him, her breathing ragged with fury. _Perfect._ "Forgive me, my lady, but I bear the tortures of the dungeon quite heavily." That drew a murmur. "All those hours spent in isolation, only to be marched here and listen to Septon Chayle and you. It is indeed a cruel form of punishment to try to _literally_ _bore_ me to death." A tense silence followed that by quickly hushed snickers.

"Unless you have something relevant to say, _bastard_ , hold your tongue." _As you wish_. "Very well. MY LORDS! I DECLARE THIS TRIAL A FARCE AND ANY JUDGEMENTS MADE HERE TO BE AS LEGITIMATE AS I AM!" _Relevant enough for you, my lady?_ It was quite interesting, in a morbid, sickening sort of way how much strain Lady Catelyn's face could bear in trying to remain impassive before it would get stuck that way. The skin around the jaw looked ready to snap, with as much certainty that the vein in her forehead might burst under more strain.

It stretched on for so long that he was actually worried that her heart might give. It wasn't kinslaying, but causing the indirect death of a lord paramount's wife would make the rest of his life exceedingly uncomfortable. "Ser Martyn," she snapped. "Clearly the prisoner has lost his wits. Escort him back to the dungeons." The murmurs began again. "And send him a book or two; we wouldn't want him to be _bored_." _That was pathetic. Let me try._

"Ser Martyn! Are you not sworn to House Stark?" The knight looked as though he wished he were anywhere else as he replied, "aye, I am." "Then do your duty Ser. Lady Catelyn is clearly overburdened. Escort her to her room and let the steward take charge until Lord Stark returns." For a moment it seemed as though the knight would listen until Lady Catelyn all but screamed, "Stay where you are, Ser Martyn! You are sworn to House Stark and I command you to throw this bastard back into the dungeons." _Are you ready to throw titles around then? Very well._ "Ser Marlon, Lady Tully is obviously quite stressed and at her wits' end. You may be honour bound to obey her but we both know that Lord _Stark_ would disagree with her decision."

The knight heard the slip in his tongue, as intended. "Lady Stark, you mean." "Quite right, my apologies to you both, Ser. Lady Catelyn is indeed a Stark by marriage, in the sept at Riverrun as we all know, but still a Stark by marriage. _More importantly_ , Lord Stark put her in charge of the daily workings of the castle, but nowhere there was it mentioned about passing judgements. As the lady of Winterfell, I acknowledge her right to brand me a traitor, as false as it may be. I also realise that it would involve a stint in the dungeons. However, I _do not_ acknowledge that she has the authority to pass judgement by the King's laws in that matter. That right, I believe continues to be held by Lord Stark. It is for his judgement that I wait, and only his judgement will I accept." Having said what was necessary; he picked up his chains and marched straight back to the dungeons.

In the end, he had to wait for three nights before he was let out. The first night; a guard entered his cell. Saying nothing, the guard ordered him to turn around. Upon refusal, he swung at him with a mailed fist. He saw stars and remembered falling. Kicks followed, knocking the air out of him.

The man had a stranger's face and a sour breath with an odour to match. Jon had planned for this; he curled up into a ball and crawled under the bed. Picking up a tin plate which he had bent into a knife and hidden in the gaps, he waited till the man had turned his back to leave that he tackled the man rammed it into his eye. The man screamed and thrashed, tried to pull him off and whenever he tried to hit him again, Jon twisted the crude blunt blade in deeper. In the end, the man was on his knees sobbing piteously, but the pain of bruised ribs had removed any pity he might have had for the man.

The man revealed himself to be a free-rider passing through when he was offered some gold to 'convince' Jon to take the black. Before names could be revealed, the Winterfell guards reappeared, looking convincingly alarmed at the sight and hoisting the man upward to be treated. Later, discreet inquiries revealed the remains of the man to be buried somewhere in the Wolfswood. He would deal with the guards later.

The second night, Maester Luwin appeared, ostensibly to treat his wounds, though he didn't fail to notice how their previously friendly conversations now always seemed to end up on inquiries about his intentions. He had grown suspicious of people in the last few days and it seemed that even those he should have been able to look up to were not beyond suspicion. He refused the treatment for his bruises despite the Maester's insistence, saying something along the lines of, "let them see the bruises Maester Luwin. Let them see Southron justice at work." No thugs came after that.

The third night, She sent Robb. Robb tried to be brave, but clearly, he was struggling to hold back his tears as he begged Jon to save himself. This plea would have been a lot more convincing if the trout's creatures were not standing guard behind Robb. He was almost on his knees, begging him to ask for mercy and claiming to have petitioned in his name but he was irritated rather than touched at the gesture. He had saved Robb's life and the thanks he got was to be locked in a rat hole while this foolish boy believed whatever his mother had told him. How could he speak about 'resolving differences' when his mother was sending footpads into his cell? He asked Robb to leave with no lack of coldness. Robb left soon after leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Inside his mind, the voices were split. The more distant ones patted him on the back and offered ale while the closer ones offered words of comfort and caution. None of that really helped. By the third day, when the cell was opened, no manacles were brought forth and instead, Ser Martyn himself appeared, bearing a fresh shift to cover his wound. He refused that. _Let them see the wounds. Let them see the work of Lady Catelyn Tully._

The whispers could be heard all around the courtyard and with more than a little sense of satisfaction, a lot of it seemed to be venom spit at the Lady Catelyn. He climbed the stairs in the great keep till he reached the door of the lord's solar.

Remembering his courtesies, he knocked then entered without leave. Inside was Lord Stark, wearing his travelling clothes and a look of utter weariness. Seated next to him was the Maester, Ser Martyn and Ser Rodrik, Vayon Poole and Robb. The only one absent was…

"Lady Catelyn has decided to visit her father Hoster Tully in Riverrun, Jon." _'Well, now this is interesting.' Yes, it is._


	16. Chapter 16: Explanations

Explanations

As his wife sobbed in his solar, flanked on both sides by guards, he could not help but let his mind wander. Having left Winterfell barely two months ago, he _could not_ _imagine_ how it could have all gone so badly. Winter-town was a burned out husk and the perpetrators had infiltrated the castle. His heir had nearly been captured and his nephew, the one who rescued him and _saved_ the castle had as a reward spent the nights until his arrival in the dungeons.

The farce of the trial didn't help her credibility, especially amongst rather detailed whispers of Jon's acts of "heroism" and of her reactions towards it. It would have been simpler, preferable even had it just been her usual sense of disdain towards the boy, but he had baited her and she clearly took the bait. Now, the loudest voices were offering their condolences to his face, while whispering about his wife's apparent lack of sanity behind her back.

He had more than enough reason to be furious at Jon until he saw the marks. According to the maester, he was probably nursing a few broken ribs, a sprained wrist and severe bruising. Had it not been for the cold in the dungeons and the maester's care, some of the open wounds could probably have been infected. However, it wasn't the wounds on the surface that was bothering him the most.

Jon had never been the most exuberant of children, but it seemed that he had grown older during these few months. The pox had left him melancholic, but the last few days made him rather cold. There was wisdom behind his eyes, yes, but there was anger too, a lot of anger. The man who attacked him had tried to escape and was conveniently found dead in the moat. Though neither the maester nor Robb would admit it, he could see in their eyes when he asked them whether they were coerced by Catelyn in what to say to Jon in the dungeons. They had the same look as the guards did when questioned too closely about who ordered that man to be killed. Catelyn was not unskilled in intrigue and yet, Jon seemed to run in circles around her while being in chains. Jon had muttered about burning House Tully down in his sleep and Ned didn't want to know how much of it was just some fanciful exaggeration.

He had heard the title of 'The Trout bitch' and in more than one occasion he had heard the 'accidental' slips of Lady Tully. Jon's actions had been exaggerated by time and retellings and yet one thing was common in all the tellings; he was the tragic hero, locked up and punished despite his innocence by the cruel whims of a mad woman. He was quite glad that bards preferred to stay away from the North. Songs of the warden on the North's mad wife wasn't something he ever wanted to hear in a tavern. And then, there was always the problem of Lyanna's wrath.

* * *

As Catelyn finished her story, one thing was for certain; she would no longer be safe in the North. The Northern lords despite their bluster were the least of his concerns. It was more than likely that some servants whose families had spent some generations within Winterfell's walls wouldn't take kindly to a Southron lady's command and with the wounds on Jon's body being common knowledge in Winterfell; it would be very easy for an overzealous servant to slip some crushed nightshade into Lady Catelyn's afternoon meal. That is if Lyanna didn't get to her first.

When she had suspected Ned of dragging his feet in regards to the Boltons, she had instigated a rebellion to force his hand. If she had any inkling of the cruelties that his wife could sink to, he would doubt the chances of survival of House Tully to the next generation. He _could_ hope that Lyanna didn't hear of it but she had an irritating way of picking up on rumours regarding Winterfell. Moreover, he had a suspicion that Smoke was far cleverer than any raven had the right to be.

He explained it as gently and as patiently as he could and she took it as well as could be expected. After half a dozen reminders of being his wife, a lady of House Tully and a mother to his children respectively, it was followed by rants on 'the insult to her face' that 'Brandon's bastard' was raised in these walls. He had lost his temper at that and asked whether she would prefer that he brought a bastard of his own instead. She went pale but before she could start screaming again, he reminded her of who the husband was (Lyanna would have gelded him for that, though the target being Catelyn she might be a bit more sympathetic) and that she ought to remember that it wasn't Brandon that she married.

He might have pushed her too far, as she exploded and replied that she wished that she _had_ married Brandon instead. There was no turning back after that. The conversation hadn't been exactly quiet but the silence which followed was deafening. It was certain that this would spread in Winterfell at least. The guards might be loyal, but the doors were too thin. She might have left with dignity for a 'visit', but that mask had fallen off. Her banishment was seen for what it was.

' _All for the better really'_ , a voice replied. _'I'm rather sick of masks.'_ He couldn't help but agree.

* * *

Eddard had long since stopped wondering about how his life could get any stranger. It seemed that whenever he decided to ask that question, some God would deign to answer in the most harrowing way ever. He was no God, but he could imagine some Old One laughing itself to death at what it could put him through before he was driven to drink. It _might_ actually be funny in a story, but not when you were the one who had to go through it all.

Speaking of surprises, Jon seemed to actually be on the verge of _smiling_ as Ned broke the news to him. _'Well, now this is interesting.'_ He could have hit Jon for that, but he clearly hadn't. _I have enough problems for now. Hearing phantom voices would have to wait._ He could have sworn he heard a snigger at the end of that.

"Does that interest you Jon?" He saw the brief surprise on his face before giving way to a look of indifference. "Relieved actually, Lord Stark. Clearly, the attack on Winterfell had strained her considerably. A visit home might do her good." _I could have him caned for that. 'How would you explain the marks to your dear sister?' Be quiet! 'Of course, that would be in addition to why a sellsword tried to bugger him in the cells. I would dearly love to see you explain that to your sister.'_

There was a deafening silence following that statement both inside and outside his head. Jon didn't seem perturbed and just stood calmly waiting for him to speak. As he looked him over, wondering on how to bring it up, he took a closer look at the bruises. He felt a sense of tingling in his arm at the sight, as though a part of him was regretting not striking Catelyn for the bruises she had inflicted on the boy and making her pay for each and every one of them.

He released a breath which he didn't realise that he had been holding in and gestured to the men. "Leave us", he commanded and they obeyed without hesitation, though one did pat Jon on the shoulder wishing him luck. Now more than ever, he was glad of his decision to send Catelyn away for the people of the North do not forget easily.

He filled two cups with wine, slowly and deliberately without spilling a drop. "Jon, please, tell me what happened." "An intruder disguised as a guard ordered me to turn around and bend over. I refused so he tried to kick me to death. I refused and gouged his eye out for it. Before I could ask him who sent him, two guards showed up and took him away. From what I've heard, somebody must have mistaken him for an anchor because they tossed him into the moat." He had drained his cup at that and proceeded to fill it again.

"This cannot go on Jon." "What do you mean?" the air of mocking innocence would have done a mummer proud but he was utterly sick and tired of these games. He banged the cup on the table "Your _feud_ with Catelyn! She might not be easy to get along with, but I could have at least expected you both to not burn the castle down! Have you forgotten that I was fighting a rebellion? Blood stains our lands from the Hornwood to White Harbor and half the villages and holdfasts are in ruins. Lord Karstark and Manderly have lost kin and are demanding blood prices. Then when I get home I find the Winter-town a ruin, half the people here poisoned, Robb nearly killed, Catelyn half mad…" "…and me in the dungeon? Or were you going to list off the cows and chickens killed first?" "This is no time for banter, boy!" The fury in his eyes seemed to flare at that before it dimmed down giving way to his trained appearance of indifference and coldness. "I apologise, Lord Stark. I forgot myself. I would like to say, however, that I didn't put Lady Catelyn in a dungeon. _I_ didn't send people to try to rape and kill her. _I_ didn't try to have her executed and whatever she might have told you, _I am not Ramsay Snow._ "

 _Gods, I need a drink. 'Slow down, Ned! If you think it's difficult to talk to him when sober, imagine trying to talk to him when drunk.'_ That was enough to stop him from reaching for the jug. ' _Good boy, Ned.' Shut up!_

" _You're right. Everything you have said is right Jon. You can't even begin to imagine how much I hate that." "I'm sorry?" "Don't misunderstand me. Despite your eccentricities, you are as different from Ramsay Snow as I could ever hope for. Catelyn acted far more foolishly than I could have imagined. She lost more than face in that mummer's farce of a court. Even now, I walk into guard in taverns who mock the 'trout bitch' ('Northerners lack imagination.' Shut up) and I doubt I would ever stop hearing the whispers of her suspected insanity."_

The coldness seemed to melt off a bit but didn't fully leave. "I _am_ sorry, Lord Stark. Not for her, but for you, Robb, Sansa and Arya. They didn't deserve to lose their mother, even temporarily and I suspect you didn't want her to leave either." He noticed the wordage used. Even in contrition, he would try and draw blood. "She left with Sansa, didn't she?" "How did you…?" "I suspected. You flinched when I said her name."

"Enough people suspect the truth, we both knew that Robb couldn't leave the North without losing the trust of his people and she wouldn't agree to leave without at least one of her children." Jon finished, "And Arya wouldn't agree to go to the South in the first place." He nodded in reply. "I want you to be honest with me Jon. We can't have any more infighting. A rebellion nearly ripped us apart and we can't afford to fight any more. Not with so many of our people dead. We have to rebuild, Jon." "I agree, Lord Stark. It would do us a lot of good. So, I would like to be honest with you." "Yes?" "Within a year, I will have to leave Winterfell Lord Stark. I was hoping for a quieter exit, but since you insist on us being honest I would save you the worry of when I leave." "If I disagree?" "That is your decision to make, Lord Stark as this will be mine and its consequences will be for us both to see."


	17. Chapter 17: Rebuilding

Rebuilding

 **Qebui**

Today it was ravens. A flock of them circled their modest holdfast, cawing incessantly; a terrible omen for the day to come. Pakhet had given up trying to shoot them down and even Osiris had simply shrugged and gone on his way to settling the next dispute. Still, there was something extremely unnerving about the ravens, just like everything else which happened the last few days.

Tribes from further north had mentioned the heart trees weeping, great herds of elk migrating south and stories of them even trying to _swim_ around the wall being told in eastwatch-by-the-sea and Thenns actually leaving their valley to _trade_. There was no shortage of omens recently though there was nobody who could tell what it meant.

Ptah had shrugged at that, his world having shrunk down to hammering decent weapons with the scrap they could find. With kingdoms being won here at the point of bronze blades and rusted steel, his skill could easily have been worth a kingdom and everyone knew it. Their little holdfast in Hardhome was quite easily the largest, wealthiest and most well protected in the peninsula. It was a tempting prize, but not an easy one as the rows of heads on its walls could testify.

When they had landed here, it was a desolate, uninhabited pile of ruins. Now, it was a desolate, inhabited collection of shacks, huts and tents with them in the centre. As depressing as their bureau was, it did have its advantages. For someone who had spent more than a decade burning in strange Dorne, this was the closest she could feel to home. The food was bland and the ale strong. Spices were almost unknown and there was no sour wine here. At times she half expected her father to come walking in, shouting at her to stop lagging on the table. Then, there were the recruits.

Most were given the most rudimentary of indoctrination, which generally involved conversations next to an open fire with meat and ale in hand. Full stomachs generally meant less frayed tempers and the idea of laws built from reason rather than divinity was more easily accepted here than in the South. Still, there were blind spots among the more traditional bent, as in the case of guest right being borne of necessity rather than curses and more than a tolerable share of old grudges. At least once a day, there was a scuffle for the settlement of some blood debt. Most ended before blood was spilt, but those who didn't led to a lot of grief. Still, it was improving.

Osiris, Pakhet and the rest pulled their weight, but there were complications. Horus lost his warg animal after the battle against the Volantenes. Dornish hawks being unsuited to the cold, it had to be sent away. He had tried warging a northern owl, but a part of him still remained 'loyal' as he put it towards the bird. Wadj-Wer had begun showing his age after their escape and now he seemed to worsen. Pakhet mentioned once that it had something to do with the Sobek, his nephew who went missing in the purge but she didn't dare mention it. It wouldn't do any good to open old wounds.

* * *

One night, they were visited by some members from the Night's Watch. One of them tried to rape a little girl who had settled in the region and the camp erupted in anger. Wadj-Wer had marched out and demanded the man's head. Blades were drawn and it would have been bloodshed had the captain not restrained himself. He had used a gelding blade and aimed it directly between the raper's legs. An agonised scream and a spurt of blood followed as he twisted the knife and pulled it out. The fur soaked up most of the blood, but the bloody pieces which fell out were unmistakable. Outside, it became very quiet as the old man quietly sheathed his blade and warned him that if they didn't seal the wound, the man would bleed to death. The very same night a few other members tried to attack him in his room as he slept. They were found the next day having been tied and left outside. The bodies were too stiff to be carried and nobody was willing to claim them so they remained, hanging from the stronghold's doors. It was never spoken of again.

The little girl was the daughter of a wood's witch. In this strange land, she proved invaluable with her knowledge of healing. Also, she knew every orphan child who ran around the settlement by name and managed to the best of her ability to take care of them and they told her about the happenings in the settlement in exchange. She was given the title of Hathor.

An exiled Thenn spearwife joined the settlement in the first week of its founding. She attacked a member of her own Warband for trying to steal from them under their roof. The Warband broke and scattered but she stayed behind. She learnt no laws and spat at the name of "lordly rights", but she was just. For that, the title of Sekhmet was conferred on her. Initially, she spat at the "fancy godly name", but since her actual name was in the old tongue, she accepted it anyway. She preferred bronze over steel and baulked at the idea of another "magnar" as she called the mentor, but she could hold her own in a fight and she knew how to treat bronze. Often she could be found arguing with Ptah about ideas on expanding the holdfast but judging from the tone and the sounds which came from the forge at night, it was clear that she was getting along quite well.

A wounded huntress was found on the outskirts of the settlement and was nursed back to health by Hathor. She was revealed to have been a warg and had the bad luck of facing a hostile hunting party. Her shadowcat was killed with an arrow through the neck; a slow and painful death. As she had lain screaming, the hunters tried to strip her of anything valuable, only to be killed in three paces by them. After she recovered, she was told that her shadowcat's body was retrieved. She offered the body to the Old gods while keeping the head for herself. After this, she was conferred the title of Bast. She wore the skull in place of a cowl, coated in bronze at Sekhmet's suggestion and had gained quite a reputation amongst other wargs. Tales were told of dead bodies being found in the woods of Hardhome, warbands who had tried to raid their settlement, Night's watchmen led by some fool who wanted to avenge the mutilation of their brothers and occasionally some suicidal fanatic with hatred against wargs. Even Varamyr fiveskins didn't dare come here and the rest knew better than to be anything but friendly.

* * *

Each brought their own stories with them, every refugee and wanderer, every trader and would-be-invader, the latter most often against their own will. Still, it was progress. They had begun to get visitors from other clans, what the Seven Kingdoms would call envoys, generally bidding them to join them in one raid or another, offering "gifts" to prevent them from doing so against them, even the occasional threat. Offers were refused politely, gifts were accepted gracefully and threats were met with cold silence. Over time, however, the news of the relative peace which could be found there spread, and the crows came to visit.

 **Stark**

Summer had returned, and so too did the crows which flew around the many towers of Winterfell. Stone by stone, the North was healing itself. The winter-town was being rebuilt and the people were returning. Ravens from all over the North shared the same news and even the Wildlings seemed to have the courtesy to lessen their raids based on Benjen's latest letters. At times, amidst the hectic schedule and the spontaneous celebrations for one finished work after another, he could often forget that he was married.

His bed remained cold and he was a stranger to the brothel, however, the rigours of the day would leave him so exhausted that he would be asleep as soon as he laid his head down. Moreover, the worries of his rule extended beyond the affairs of the North. Hoster was clearly unhappy with Catelyn's forced visit to Riverrun and had stated as much. His son had much less restraint and had more than a few choice words to describe Northerners in general. Ned responded firmly to the former, stating unequivocally that Catelyn had overstepped herself greatly by not only challenging his authority in front of the people but also by overstepping her own in front of everybody of renown in the North. She had destroyed more of her reputation in a week than she had built in years and she would not be welcome in Winterfell until she learnt her place (for any other woman, Lyanna would have gelded him for that).

As for the second letter, he made two copies and sent one to Robert and the other to Hoster. Robert responded as he would and excluding berations from Jon Arryn, no letters came from the south ever again.

He knew that he would never be a great player of the game and he didn't know whether he should be frightened of that, or of how much he enjoyed winning.

* * *

The other great source of worry was not the arrival of letters, but rather their absence. Lyanna was always a rather spirited girl and though more controlled, that wildness was still there. He had read her words of pain upon finding the remains of one of Ramsay's first victims; a girl of barely fifteen name days. When he hesitated to act, she instigated a civil war. Crows bred and feasted all along the breadth of the North. Now, her son had been tortured under his roof and every day he was surprised that the Tullys didn't find themselves murdered in their beds. There were no letters, not even a visit from Smoke, and the silence was far more worrying than anything else. Late at night, he could feel half a hundred eyes bearing down on him, as though every single raven in the godswood had decided to perch just out of sight of his solar window.

He didn't find out the truth till a few months later, when Benjen during a visit, walked straight into his solar and without a word spoken, hit him on the jaw. Before he could pull himself up and speak, Benjen had already drained down his second cup of wine and spoke, "We need to talk Ned. We need to talk about Lyanna." Outside of his window, the crows started cawing madly.

 **Snow**

"The old man would like to see you." Master Connor had uttered those words to him the next time he went to visit and he spent it being taught an abject lesson in humility. It started with a sparring match as usual; him picking out a weapon of his choosing and waiting for the teacher. When he saw that it was a crippled old man in a chair, he thought that his teacher was joking. After a bit of insistence and harsh words on the part of the old man, he saw the old man rise up, shakily leaning on his cane and decided to gently push him down. He had barely stepped forward when he found himself flat on his back. No words were spoken except, "Again."

So he got up and fell again, and he got up again, and so on and so on. He tried keeping his distance, only to leave the ring and be pushed in by Connor. He tried rushing him, only to end up somehow tripping over his own feet. He tried to cloud himself in smoke, only to find the old man had somehow snuck up on him instead. He tried brawling, only to be whacked across his shins with a cane and he even tried to loose an arrow once, only to be met with a knife to the back by Connor. His arguments over this being unfair was met with the response that using a bow in a sparring match could be considered the same.

In the end, he just grew tired and dropped his blade. The old man came up to him and gently lifted his face, just to strike him across it with a blow which nearly woke him up. The pain was unpleasant, but the words which followed were even more so. The lectures which followed from the old man, Haytham and Yusuf's singer were both somehow alike and yet different. It all came down to his utter inability to understand the second tenet of the creed (Haytham's had some variation to this by pointing out that even the Templars had mastered subtlety better than he did) and of how he had alienated the entire Riverlands by his actions without leaving the confines of Winterfell (the singer seemed to age on sight at this, as he muttered about how the mistakes of the past seemed to repeat themselves, again and again). They all agreed to the necessity of preserving his safety, but by letting his resentment get the better of him, he had ensured his future to be a lot more difficult.

He had somehow ended up being lectured across the breadth of space and time at the exact same moment so that in the end, Achilles was still the last one speaking.

"Do you know why I asked you to spar with me, Jon?" "There was a lesson in it obviously?" "Do not let your witticisms blunt your wits, boy. The last Assassin who failed as badly as you did in life earned a blade to his gut for his troubles. Yes, they were to teach you a lesson, something which you apparently still have yet to learn. You saw me as a teacher and rather than seeing a master Assassin with more years with the blade than you have had years overall, you saw a feeble old man with a stick. That is why you spent the day cleaning the yard with your back. This ability to hide is such an ingrained skill that it is one of our tenets, 'Hide in Plain Sight'. There are no double meanings or complex messages here. It is a clear message which you chose to ignore. It is a strength that you haven't learnt to utilise and now I fear you never will. By climbing and training in broad daylight, you have brought too much attention to yourself and by making a fool of the most powerful lady in the North, quite a lot of enmity too."

"I saved her life and Robb's too." "And I am sure that she would have been so grateful if you bothered to tell her that." "What happened to 'hide in plain sight'?" "Killing the intruders without being spotted would have been hiding in plain sight. Perching on a gargoyle and loosing arrows at them isn't. Downplaying your accomplishments and avoiding unwanted attraction would have been hiding in plain sight. Hiding your role in saving her life, something which could have earned you some favour would have been hiding in plain sight. Tearing house Stark apart for your grudges isn't that. Being spoken of by every lord in the North and a few in the south doesn't count as hiding boy".

"The only reason that I bothered to answer this rather than throwing you out is that Connor insists that you have potential. Also, climbing stairs is dull and painful work for me. So unless you have something clever to say, be silent lest I change my mind." Jon fell silent.

The old man hobbled up the stairs motioning them both to follow him. As they went up further to the first floor, with a sweep of his arm, he let the roof and the walls fade away, showing the land stretching out on three sides with the sea at their back. Jon hid his surprise at the level of control the old man had in this other realm as he continued to speak, "This was once, and probably still is, a haven for our people. You can try to always be vigilant every hour of every day but it will eat at you, Jon. If your enemies don't slit your throat, you might end up doing it to yourself. So, unless you want to start sleeping with a knife under your pillow, please learn the meaning of subtlety."

"I will do my best, mentor." "Good, that is all that I expect of you."

 **Tully**

" _How could it have gone so wrong?"_ In the last three hundred years, his family's strength had waxed and waned and yet his ancestors had always made the right decisions, as risky as they might have been, to strengthen the position of House Tully. He too followed in their footsteps as they kicked the dragons off their shores and yet, he was losing what he had to show for it. His bloodline would sit on the thrones of at least one if not two of the seven kingdoms and the king was _still_ indebted to him for his contributions. He had raised a powerful legacy and yet it was crumbling like sand all around him.

It could have started after he married off Lysa to Lord Arryn. To put it mildly, it didn't go well. Cat's marriage, he had imagined it to have gone better until she returned to Riverrun just short of being carted in chains. When she had arrived, she looked tired but furious about what happened. A few harsh words were spoken on both sides culminating in her breaking down in tears and revealing what had happened.

The bastard of Bolton had been caught brutalizing the peasants on his father's land in a rather unsavoury and indiscreet manner. Lord Stark summoned Lord Bolton to answer for the crimes and demanded that the boy be turned over and Lord Bolton raised his banners in rebellion. What happened next proved to be the second rebellion of Robert's reign as for the first time in living memory; blood was spilt on Northern lands.

The Blackfyre rebellions taught the South the true nature of bastards and now the last Bolton rebellion must have done the same to the north. It wasn't that surprising really that in the midst of all this confusion, Catelyn suspected the boy of some treachery and was waiting for proof.

The burning of the Winter-town proved to be that as upon finding her guards dead and herself unharmed, she had gathered whatever guards she could and had the boy locked up. Her methods to try and extract a confession were admittedly horrific in a different light, but the years of war and years in all had removed much of his idealism. He had done his share of such work and it was best never spoken of again. In the end, he was far too old and apathetic to care for much and when he did, his options were limited.

* * *

A letter was sent as was expected of him and Lord Stark replied with the amount of courtesy as befitted a lord and despite the floweriness of the words, the words themselves were cold reminders that his daughter's actions made it unsafe for her to be seen in the North for quite some time. He could understand that, even if he didn't like it and given time, he could have worn Stark down had it not been for the rashness of Edmure.

When Catelyn appeared in Riverrun, he had planned to ride all the way to Winterfell and demand that Lord Stark explain himself. When explained in detail about the follies of his endeavour, admittedly without much patience, he had decided to follow his father's actions. However, his fury had clearly remained unabated judging from what Maester Vyman told him about the contents of that said letter. His pains worsened as he waited for the oncoming Northern storm.

The storm, however, appeared from the South, as Maester Vyman came to his rooms with a letter from Robert Baratheon himself. The king had quite a few choice words about House Tully's and specifically Edmure's actions and a lot of ranting was done on certain insults his son had not quite-so-subtly penned. Each of them was emphasized on and uniquely twisted till they could be applied to his house. As he heard the content being read out, a part of him couldn't help but imagine what happened to the scribe who was forced to write it down and whether he was still alive or Robert in a moment of drunken creativity had smashed his head with a hammer or wine jug. At the end of the letter was written (quite obviously by Jon Arryn) a plea to not antagonise the North further. That advice he could heed.

Catelyn had spent her days in the Sept or her rooms. It was clear the ordeal had broken her and more than once, he cursed his frailty for not being able to comfort her. A part of him wished that Brynden was here. His brother could always get the girls to talk and (much to his chagrin) was admittedly more of a father to them than he was. However, he knew how wild Brynden could be and if by some miracle he hadn't heard of this debacle, his fury at finding it out and the actions which he might take wasn't something he wanted to think about. No, it was better to leave well enough alone.

In the end, he didn't give much thought to the bastard. The boy was clearly trouble, and either he was the most reckless idiot in the north, or the most cunning. He didn't know which and that was worrying him. Edmure's idiocy meant that he couldn't risk angering the north for demands to remove the boy and neither Catelyn nor Edmure would take kindly to an offer to have the boy fostered here. If he was sent to the Vale, either Brynden would have him killed or end up being killed by the boy. He could try to leave him to die amongst the hill tribes though based on the whispers coming from the North; it was possible that he might end up leading them and declaring himself as king of the vale out of spite. As much as he might hate it, the boy was far too well hidden and unpredictable to get rid of. Nothing could be done about him and time will tell if he was right about this.


	18. Chapter 18: Life in Winterfell

Life in Winterfell

 **An apprentice**

He had what he needed. He counted them again in his mind; a bedroll hidden in the hollow behind his bed, an oil cloth bartered in the Winter-town market for a pitcher of summer wine, a pouchful of flints, painstakingly gathered from the Wolfswood and tested. His name day gift; a hunting knife carefully sharpened and cleaned, a whetstone, and an unstrung bow and a spool of cord to go with it. A fletcher had gifted him with the tools of his trade for saving his life against a feral wolf (a story for another time) so he would not run short of arrows.

The biggest weight however, was the food. He knew better than to pack anything fresh and more than one teacher had pontificated long on the various painful ways in which armies would shit themselves to death. He didn't really need to know that. During his worst nightmares, he could still smell the dead at Acre and also the burning remains of Lord Rickard ….

Bad memories weren't needed now. The food he would carry was dried, smoked or salted and an empty waterskin and saucepan took care of the water. Connor had taught him about making pemmicans and the memories of the homestead did include ways in making use of every bit of an animal. It was in the inn that he had tried stewed venison heart for the first time and he hoped it wouldn't be the last.

* * *

A successful hunting trip in the Wolfswood left him with half a couple of freshly killed rabbits (or hares? He still had trouble telling them apart), a partridge and some trouts. The pot shops in the winter town accepted the rabbit meat in exchange for some hard bread, stew and a fistful of coppers. A fishwife bought the trouts for half again as much. A travelling merchant accepted the pelts for twenty stags and the partridge was used as a bribe for Gage in exchange for some hard cheese which could be stored indefinitely. All in all; a good day.

Until that is, he passed through the inner walls only to hear screaming. The inner wolf in him twitched at the noise, not quite fully alert due to the absence of any obvious danger. As another scream followed, a brown blur streaked across the upper floor and jumped down the stairs without regard to life or limb. It materialised to the form of Robb carrying what appeared to be a thoroughly muddied dress. There was an unspoken agreement between them and so he conveniently pushed a ladder against an upper floor from the ground while steadying it with his foot.

He raced up the ladder without a word, offering a quick pat on the back in gratitude while still dragging along his ridiculous prize. As he disappeared above the railing, Jon leant against the ladder while pointedly staring at the gates. In a few heartbeats, a tempest marched into the courtyard, screaming for blood while still trying and failing to appear dignified. She was far too proud to ask Jon for Robb's whereabouts despite being the only person who could be sure about it and for some reason, every free worker had somehow vanished from sight (though most likely not from hearing).

Noticing him staring with apparent surprise towards the gates, barely noticing her appearance, she came to the obvious conclusion of what could have drawn his attention. She immediately took off towards the gates, hoping to catch Robb, just as he had planned. By the time she was done circling the castle, he would have been quietly in his own room, buried in his books as planned. To him, it was just another day in Winterfell.

 **A black brother**

All the wine in the world wouldn't make this an easy conversation, but he could try. After the fifth cup however, he could feel the room spinning so he sat down and started talking before he threw up on his brother.

"Did you hear of Ser Jaremy Rykker, Ned?"

"Isn't he a black brother?"

He nodded. "A former loyalist and now, a _former_ black brother. His watch ended before I came here." "That's unfortunate. What happened?" "I threw him off the wall."

The coughing and stunned silence as Ned finished choking on his wine weren't unexpected, but the act for reaching for his dagger was. Before he could commit to any rash action, Benjen grabbed his wrist. "Hear me out brother."

"How can you possibly justify that Benjen? You _murdered_ a brother." "It became a cruel necessity brother, when Ser Jaremy started seeing ghostly visions of our long dead sister beyond the wall." The fight went out of Ned as he slumped in his chair and to his surprise, actually started chuckling.

As he kept laughing he muttered, "I should have expected it. You never do anything halfway, do you, Lya?"

Ben had suspected this already, but to have it admitted so easily. "Why?" in the end, there wasn't anything else to ask. "Ben, four Starks went South, two died and two returned North, Lya wasn't one of them till now. Where do you think the one came from?" As realisation hit him, Ned continued, "it is best unspoken aloud. Wouldn't you agree?"

Ben nodded dumbly, as Ned continued, "now tell me your story."

* * *

"Rumours had spread, that some of the Wildlings had formed a settlement in Hardhome a few months ago and there were wagers on how quickly before they were burnt to the ground. They must have heard because it seems that out of pure spite, the settlement hasn't been sacked yet. Worse, it seems to be growing."

"Are you worried about an invasion?"

"No, from all accounts the settlers are the most reasonable people there. They were rumoured to use steel and yet preferred trading and fishing to hunting. From what we heard on the wall, the promise of safety has been drawing people in like moths to a flame. At present; it is believed there are well over a thousand people there already and it's still growing. Lord Commander Mormont knew better than to antagonise the only power beyond the wall which outnumber us _and_ are armed with steel so we preferred to avoid them until a few weeks ago; when a ranging group happened to 'stumble' upon the region. The fools tried to rape a little girl. The accused was gelded where he stood for his troubles and when the rest tried to attack the same night, they were left tied to stakes in the night to serve as a warning."

"Do you expect me to aid you in attacking them, and risk revealing the secret?"

"No, to be honest, those men won't be missed. They broke guest right Ned; the Wildlings were justified in their actions. Their actions would have shamed the watch beyond any redemption and we were willing to look the other way."

"What really happened?" "What do you mean?" "I _mean_ , what really happened?"

A pause followed this, "the leaders of the settlement sent a raven to Lord Commander, with _explicit_ details on the men's actions and their punishment, along-with a warning that the next time a black brother entered the region with anything _except_ a flag of parley, ravens would be sent to all corners of the seven kingdoms, _especially_ to every house in the North about the actions of the watch that night."

"I can see the method behind all this madness Ben, I suggest we follow it."

Now it was his turn to chuckle. "It's too late for that Ned. The Lord Commander decided on a parley and decided to send the First ranger and two bodyguards on a parley. Imagine that, Ned, when I learnt to bring the dead back to life, all I had to do was visit the end of the world. Do you think Brandon was resting in the Summer Isles all this time, because I would dearly love to find out."

Ned clearly didn't share the morbid sense of humour as he scowled, "you would have to do without a head, I fear. If you force me to be a kinslayer, I would gladly bring you back to life just to send you back to the wall after executing you."

"As I was saying, one of the guard was Jaremy Rykker, with whom I had an argument on the wall which ended with him slipping off the wall." "And the other?" "Turned his cloak. Mance Rayder was born a wildling and it seems that our sister has the gift of making men commit acts of insanity for her amusement."

* * *

Every word in the story seemed to sour the air as time passed and in the end, eve the thought of wine was quite nauseating. As they left the solar, more than a little bit drunk, they both wondered independently of how much damage Lyanna could do, merely by her presence. Neither one of them wanted to find out.

When a guard came running up with even worse news, they knew.

 **An accomplice**

"When the sun sets over the Wolfswood, but before the moon rises, I want you to take the bundle below your bed and throw it over the eastern ramparts." The orders reverberated in his head as he marched along the outer walls, trying his best to look comfortable while lugging a sack half his weight. The instructions also included a signal and warnings to avoid being seen, but the exact wording seemed to escape him as for the _fifth time_ , he had to sit on the sack that he was carrying while hiding from another guard and hoping that he didn't get skewered through the bottom by one of Jon's daggers.

By the time he reached an acceptable spot to the northern side of the eastern gate, it was near moonrise and what appeared to be a few Night's watchmen riding at full trot through the gates. He waited till they passed and turned his eyes towards the first keep where as expected; Jon perched precariously near a gargoyle. Somehow, Jon turned and looked at him at the exact moment and released his pet raven.

Seeing the signal, he gently lowered the sack over the wall with a rope while hoping that the guards were too blinded by their torches or distracted by the new visitors to notice. As he turned to look at Jon, he nearly squeaked in shock (though he wouldn't admit it under the threat of death) as Jon grabbed what appeared to be a piece of rope tied to the base of the gargoyle. The other end was tied to the hoardings on the wall and grabbing the rope, he slid down. In a few moments, he covered the distance and waving his arm in thanks, he jumped off the wall.

Robb didn't realise that he had been holding his breath as he waited for a thud to sound and people to start screaming. As a few moments passed and they didn't happen, he heaved in air while _still_ trying to remain quiet and mover towards the place where Jon lay. As he looked over the walls, he could see what appeared to be a shadow flitting under the walls of the Winter-town.

 _Goodbye Jon. I am sorry for failing you, brother. I hope you find your family as you wished._

 **A Bastard**

' _You're a real bastard, you know that Jon?' I know. Greyjoy keeps reminding me so you don't have to. 'That's not what I meant.' Again, I know. Now's not the time for it Sixteen, I'll apologise to Robb… if I ever see Winterfell again._

The silence which followed was deafening, as Jon strained his ears to hear anything else, but it seemed that the ever present voice in his head knew when to shut up. Wincing slightly, he applied the poultice and bandage to his bruised shoulder and put on the undershirt. It was moments like these which he remembered and reminded others when there were complaints about his obsession with preparation. From the piles of hay which he had 'borrowed' from the residents, countless hours were spent removing stray branches and rocks, any one of which could have resulted in impalement or a broken bone. Instead, he was now left with a really sore shoulder and a stiff back.

Running through the Wolfswood to escape from Winterfell would be difficult as it is; now a more apt term would be 'hobbling slowly' away from the guards. If he was lucky, he might be able to pay a farmer for a ride in his cart, more likely that he would have to 'borrow' one.

' _It wouldn't be worth it.' What? 'It's not borrowing if you don't return it, even if you don't intent to keep it for yourself.' Everything is permitted. 'We both know that you are smarter than that. You are nowhere near ready to face the consequences in the state you're in, and it's more likely that any farmer here will beat your brains in for your troubles before your Uncle's men catch up'. You just want to watch me get beaten up by an old man again, don't you? 'That's irrelevant, but yes and if you do something that stupid tomorrow, I'll help you relive it for the end of your days.' And you call me a bastard._

He was used to the sniggering in his head for every mistake that he made, but his nerves were strung here and he envisioned pushing sixteen off the wall. He had learnt to have some level of control in the other world and it must have worked because he heard a faint scream and a groan from the inside of his mind. He smiled despite himself and re-thought his plan, and on instinct as he tried to call for help, Haytham's advice came to mind.

 _Connor? 'Yes?' I need your help._ There was a pause which stretched for an uncomfortable moment before the world turned dark. Before he could say anything, a ghostly spectre emerged; taking the form of his mentor who nodded for him to continue.

 _I… I'm trapped mentor. I've injured my arm and back so I can't run or ride. The storyteller warned me against stealing a cart so I…I just really need your advice. 'Call for help, Jon.' I did, that's why you're here. 'Call for help from your world Jon.' Robb won't help me, not after what Lord Stark will put him through for helping me escape. 'You have more than Starks as your allies Jon.' I understand, thank you mentor. But I haven't used ash for that yet. 'I will guide you.'_

Above the roof tops of Winterfell, Jon's consciousness was split in half, one which remained in his barely conscious body, and the other which entered the mind of his pet crow. He had warged successfully for a while but this was a skill which was exceeding rare to say the least; a second sight where he saw more of the world through the eyes of both a bird and man alike.

Connor's presence flew alongside him, an ethereal eagle of light, who lit a safe path across the night sky for Ash to follow while on the ground, a wolf shone brightly, lighting up the same while a bear of smoke guided his horse.

Maybe it had something to do with the splitting of his consciousness, but the pain had dampened considerably and he could even pretend to walk in a convincing manner, albeit with the appearance of a drunken noble.

* * *

' _You magnificent bastard, when you grow older don't forget to write a book about this.' If you don't shut up Sixteen; when… if I die of old age, I'll strangle you._

The sun was rising and in the distance, he could have sworn he heard the baying of hounds.

His travelling pack was the worse for wear but it held. The dogs were getting and louder and Jon didn't want to risk a chase and injure himself further. _Connor, could you hold the reins for a while?_ He received a confirmation to that and released his hold on both the horse and ash who continued to fly in circles around them.

He sagged in relief as a burden which he hadn't truly realised was lifted and reluctantly shouldered it again as he split his consciousness. It was easier this time as it raced through the forest and straight into Farlen's. They both knelt over at the shock and Jon leapt out into the closest mind he found; the hound's. He saw through the hound's eyes and saw the kennel master lying prostrate and clutching his head. Jon could hear him breathing softly and saw the hound licking his face to wake him up.

As Farlen stirred, Jon nudged the hound and it obeyed, howling loudly and longly. As soon as more people arrived, the hound yipped and ran, straight in the opposite direction where Jon was. By the time distance and time became relevant, his track would be old. In the distance, he could have sworn he heard people calling for him, but it didn't matter.

He left Winterfell at night as a Stark bastard. If the gods were good; by the time his journey ended, he would call himself a child of shadows; a hidden one.


	19. Chapter 19: Reckonings

Reckonings

 **Wolf**

It was a gentler punishment than he expected. To be comfortably locked in his room, with a few books to pass the time was nowhere near as bad as he expected. The realisation came slowly; the guards were kinder than he expected, even sounding a bit concerned and they kept a relaxed eye on him, occasionally sharing a few treats. The maids and servants talked far too openly around him. Maester Luwin would _still_ come over with his lessons and Arya would visit frequently. As he pushed his luck, he found that they even seemed to turn a blind eye to him sneaking out, though they still seemed keen on following him.

This wasn't what being imprisoned was supposed to be like. He had some idea of it at least, having seen it happen first to Jon, then his mother. Then he realised; he wasn't being imprisoned, he was being protected. The guards were to stop anyone unwanted from entering his rooms, not to stop him from leaving. At that moment, he couldn't help feeling like the biggest idiot in the world as he tried to imagine what people must have thought he was up to, locked in his rooms.

The clarity came first, but as he kept thinking it over, fear set in. The idea that _this_ wasn't even meant to be punishment but a precaution made him worry. The fact that precaution involved the northern equivalent of a maiden vault made him embarrassed. The idea that if this was what concern was like, then his father's anger would be terrible to behold made him truly afraid. He swore to himself to keep his mouth shut because no matter what, if this is what safety was in his father's mind, he wouldn't want to know what danger was.

* * *

The sound of blades clashing was in its own way calming to his mind. It reminded him of times now gone, when he could have happily spent the day clashing blades against a worthy opponent. Now they were gone; Jon had left and the guards were spread thinly over the lands looking for him. Ser Rodrik still spared the time to train him but the new influx of raw recruits cut down on it sharply.

When he clashed blades with Jon, he suspected him of holding back his full skill. The one time he persuaded Jon to stop holding back in a private bout, it ended with a knife at his throat as Jon simply threw the sword at him and tackled him to the ground as he parried in surprise. When he complained about it being unfair, Jon simply shrugged and said that he wouldn't live long enough to complain about it in an actual battle.

Now, he could have beaten the recruits with an eye closed and an arm tied to his back. When a newly arrived arrogant little shit challenged him to back up his words, he thrashed the boy while doing so, nearly crippling him. The boy was sent to be treated by the maester while he spent the rest of the day cleaning the stables as punishment. He later learnt that the boy was Roose Dustin, son of Willam and Barbrey Dustin and ward to Winterfell. Some other newcomers included a loud Tallhart boy, a quieter Cerwyn boy named Cley and a Crannoggirl named Meera. The last arrived with a larger than usual guard bearing a message for his father. He didn't see his father read it, but judging from what he heard, later on, he didn't want to.

* * *

"Do you remember Howland Reed, Robb?" They were both in his Father's solar, as Lord Stark held a worn out and stained paper in his hand, reading it for what must have been the hundredth time.

"The lord of Greywater Watch. You told me that he's a close friend of yours."

His father hummed in reply before picking up a quill and writing on the back of the letter. 'The walls have ears.' Before he could ask what it meant, he gestured for silence before handing the letter to him. Rather hesitantly, he picked up the paper and started reading, the parts which hadn't been blotted out by ink anyway,

'…found by an out-rider. A boy with the Stark look was found riding through a hidden track in the neck. When my scouts approached him, he somehow spotted them through the trees and counted out their exact number and location. Those who keep to the old tales have spoken about a second sight but that isn't what worries me. As you know, my boy Jojen…' the writing was blotted out, '…I would have written sooner but I received another raven, an old friend of yours I believe named Smoke which…' most of the writing following this had half a bottle's worth of ink poured over it and it continued on after a hand's breadth, 'at the moment, I can say for sure is that the boy has entered the Riverlands. May all trouts beware.'

The grip on the letter tightened as he spoke quietly, "This isn't funny father."

"That wasn't my intention either. Jon leaves Winterfell for the free cities without a word and expects my banner-men to act as his messengers." Robb was speechless as he looked for the bottle responsible. His father did drink a bit more than he used to, but the daily amount couldn't justify such an oversight in speech. Before he could reply, however, his father picked up a few pieces of wood next to the hearth and began speaking loudly, "Yes, yes, I've heard all the little words of wisdom that the Septa prattles on about. I never really took much stock in them, but now all I can hope is for Jon to avoid shaming us further. At least your mother and Sansa can return now, with there being no threat of her burning down Winterfell, eh?"

His father never really tended to his own fires, and he certainly never used the word, 'eh.' But that wasn't what was surprising him. Despite the words, his father's face looked as grim as possible and as the fire roared loudly, he threw the letter into it and made sure it burnt completely before turning around and facing him.

His father was staring intently and for a moment he could feel a dull pressure on the back of his mind, as though there was something trying to worm its way in. As it fell away, he noticed his father looking relieved and yet somehow a bit disappointed.

He took out two goblets, large ones and very slowly and deliberately poured wine into them. Over the roaring fire and the trickle of wine, he could barely hear anything from outside as his father beckoned him to come closer. As he leaned over the table, careful to avoid getting drops of wine on his doublet; his father spoke quietly,

"I don't care how Jon ran away Robb, or whether you had a part in it. Just know that what I'm about to tell you can save his life; so don't interrupt me. Do you understand? Nod if you do, but don't speak." Robb nodded.

"Good, now remember; never speak of this to anyone unless I say so. Even to Catelyn, Sansa or Arya. The walls have ears Robb, and we have too many enemies now. The Boltons weren't the only ones Robb, and the rest have just gone into hiding. If anyone of them knew that my nephew had left the North, they wouldn't hesitate to draw a knife at his neck."

 _Unless he draws his first._ What he must have thought must have shown on his face as his father grimaced and drained down half of it in one gulp before filling Robb's. He really was drinking far too much. "He's still just a boy Robb. Now I really don't know Jon's motivations and a part of me doesn't want to. It doesn't matter because he's family Robb. So, while he goes travelling we'll do our best to protect him, by keeping quiet. Do you understand?"

Robb nodded at that and his father smiled faintly and stopped pouring the brimming goblet. Robb grabbed it, knowing that such an opportunity would never happen again and after gently tapping his father's glass, he drained it down.

 _To Jon. May I get drunk at your expense, brother. 'Amen to that! Oh shit; wrong mind. Never mind boy, I'm just a figment of your imagination. Now forget about me and pass out.'_ Robb passed out.

 **Trout**

For the second time in her life, she would pass into the North. It wasn't any easier. The night of their departure, Edmure was in his cups and acted in a way reminiscent of his youth. It was rather endearing actually if one could ignore the fact that he appeared to be on the verge of becoming sick any minute all over her clothes. Sansa didn't seem to care for it, but then she had grown quite attached to Riverrun.

Her poor daughter had taken to the South more than she had to anything in the North (to her satisfaction, though she would be loath to admit it) and was in tears upon hearing of their imminent departure. Her father never really had many words for them when they were children but seemed to be trying to be making up for it seeing how much he doted on Sansa. As he embraced her, it seemed as if there might have been a glimmer of tears in his eyes. When she looked again, his eyes were closed and the glimmer was gone.

* * *

 _Edmure has made a mistake again._ It wasn't a very encouraging thought to begin their journey with. Lord Eddard Stark (her **beloved** husband) had deigned to provide a mounted escort for their journey. For a lady of her stature, she was afforded a carriage but Edmure had outdone himself by redecorating it and providing a cadre of Riverrun's finest to escort her. Catelyn nearly gritted her teeth at her brother's poor attempt at intimidation with shiny guardsmen and painted carriages. Even from her limited knowledge of the Northerners, she could see it backfiring.

The carriage looked far too flimsy for the northern roads and the colouring made it look like it was meant to be used in a mummer's farce. The shiny guards weren't helping matters either. Northerners preferred their armour plain. Well taken care of and reliable but generally old and bearing the marks of battle. The guards of Riverrun however; bore armour which looked like it hadn't seen a day of combat and the same could be said of the wearers.

Also, in a land of wolves, bears and giants, fish-head helms and trout painted shields looked less regal and more hilarious. He might have been influenced by the Rhoynar; but unless he could actually command the rivers to his will, it appeared as it was, the overzealous work of a boy-lord.

 _Still, the roads being they are, extra guards might actually be useful._ She had no idea how true that prediction would come.

* * *

'Bloody upstarts', were the word everyone used to describe the Freys, even amongst people who had no idea what they _actually_ upstarted. Her mood had gone grimmer as they passed north and looking at the squat, miserable pair of castles didn't help matters. As tense as the Stark and Tully guardsmen were, they could both agree on their mutual disdain for the Freys.

It was a small comfort with the thought of requesting passage for the crossing. When she went to Riverrun, she and her retinue had kept silent about what happened in Winterfell. That didn't stop Lord Walder from knowing about it as somehow word had come from the _south_ of all places. When she found out that Edmure was responsible for it, she had to be restrained to keep her from strangling him.

Lord Walder was no less insufferable now than he was before, though the drunken invitations from his descendants had considerably lessened, no doubt helped by the barely sheathed swords around her. At the end, when all courtesies were done, it was all down to haggling.

They left the Twins with purses which were no lighter than when they left, but now two boys and two girls were added to their retinue. She could only wonder how she would explain to Ned and Robb that they now had squires to take care of.

 **Sobek**

 _So this is what it is like to die._ He was far too tired for fear. In the end, there was just relief that the chase was over. He had hunted and been hunted for over a year, and now he could rest. He was born with another name, one he could barely remember, but after being reborn, he was named for a god. As it turns out, gods do die.

He could hear the one who hunted him come, moving slowly over the reeds. _Still, a warm wind on my face, the sound of the Greenblood in my ears and no pain, there are worse ways to go._ The footsteps stopped and as he looked upwards, he saw his killer.

A ghostly white mask which looked as fragile as glass and yet he had seen it remained undented after being hit with a mace. The body seemed to shimmer, as the assailant's robes seemed _ghostly_. He put a hand in his robes and held aloft a small crystal sphere. The world turned black and the sounds were muted. Bands of gold streaked around him and in the distance; took the form of a building.

 _Sunspear._ He thought as it seemed to shift. As though it were nothing more than a child's scribble or an image formed on a stained glass window, it started to break and tear, the pieces floating upwards and reforming into a face. _The ancestors of the old ones called her a goddess; it isn't hard to see why._ Though undeniably beautiful, it was remarkable how _inhuman_ she seemed.

She looked down at him condescendingly with bright and lifeless eyes, and there was a hint of a smile on her face. She spoke _inside_ his mind and he couldn't shut the voice out.

' _No matter how much I try to hate you, you end up surprising me. Time and again, your species exceeds anything which I can expect from you. Yet, whenever I dare to hope, whenever I dare to put some faith in you, you show me the depravities which you can reach. So tell me child, what-ever should I do with you and your kind?'_

 _You could leave me and my kind alone, my lady. Or would it be your holiness? Your decisions have left me hunted, bleeding and dying, so I am not exactly sympathetic to your wishes._

' _A thought which hasn't escaped me either, and yet; you are our, or more accurately_ _ **m**_ _y responsibility. You were our greatest achievement and our greatest failure. It was once my desire to destroy you, now you are the_ _ **only**_ _reason I am here. It isn't for any wish of mine to be here, child. Like you, I have a duty to play. Yours just happened to interfere with mine_

' _With all due respect, that's a small comfort to me.'_

 _It doesn't have to be. Your physical body, it's nothing more than a prison. You can always join me and…'_

… _be free? Gain universal knowledge? Shit gold? Freedom was promised to me once, and so was enlightenment. I wasn't offered the ability to shit gold however, but I have no desire to turn into Tywin. I have paid the price for freedom and knowledge and I don't regret it. However, I would rather be dead than your thrall so as I said, kill me and be done with it._

The face didn't twitch or move, it just sent out three words, _('so be it')_ and the world faded.

 **The instrument**

As the cult member died smiling, he wiped his dagger in disgust and placed the orb back inside his robes. It wasn't exactly glorious work, gutting the last remnants of a long dead order but still, orders are orders. His prey was a wily one; one he had to chase across the length and breadth of Dorne in absolute secrecy. Now, as he lay dead in the reeds, he scarcely appeared to be more than a boy. He didn't even have a proper cowl or blade.

As he got up and stretched, he could feel one of the unhealed wounds open and start bleeding again. Grimacing, he mounted his horse and started riding off. It was at least a day's journey to Planky-town and the orphans of the Greenblood knew the river better than anyone else. It would be best to be as far away as possible from the body before it was discovered.

He had what he wanted; a small crystal cube, bearing the blood of the now dead cult member.

* * *

High Hermitage was not exactly intimidating. For the dwelling of a cadet branch of a noble house of former kings, it looked more akin to a septry. Its many sided walls would take turns to reflect the sun and shine for every hour of the day and the windows were made of milk glass, glistening like dawn itself. _A rather poor imitation to Dawn._ The thought wormed traitorously into his mind though he flattened it.

He needed no heralds, no trumpets were blown and he despised retinues and guards. No man or woman in Dorne was mad enough to try their luck with him, not even the viper. The gates were raised at his approach and he entered into the gloom.

He barely noticed the servants going back and forth, their eyes averted at his look and to his slight amusement, there was visible fear among the younger women at his presence. Doubtless, they had heard about his little amusements regarding the 'poachers' he had captured alongside the disputed borders to his north. He did enjoy tweaking the huntsman's nose as any true Dornishman would.

He strode in, barely looking to his sides as he passed through the halls; daring for any of the servants to be too slow in opening the doors or block his path by accident and face his wrath. None of them did, however, and as he reached his solar, an almost collective sigh of relief could be heard through the castle as he entered into his true domain.

* * *

High Hermitage was a relatively new castle, in that its existence could be pinned down to within a few centuries of the conquest. Its foundations, however, were another story. There were still places like these in Westeros, the foundations of the Hightower for one, though no one truly remembered their real purpose.

Gerold knew, as much as any living man could about these places. The pile of rocks above was merely the ugly pommel to a sword which pierced through history, past any and all of the ages of man, to the time of the cataclysm and back to the time when men lived like gods and demons and _actual_ gods and demons still spoke to them. The grey sheep of the citadel were more akin to rats, scratching at the surface and dickering about trivialities like blood-lines and claims when the truth of the world was hidden quite literally down the road from them. If all the maesters had but a single neck, he would love to strangle it.

He dropped down the platforms, for in time's march even the seemingly indestructible constructs such as their stairs and moving platforms had worn or broken down. _An old blade, but it will still cut deep when the time comes._ He reminded himself as he reached his destination.

* * *

High hermitage was nought but a facade. The truth lay half a hundred feet below it. A hall, bounded by a vaulted ceiling formed from the bedrock of the mountains surrounding him and with a raised platform in the centre around which there was a bottomless moat. He had once dropped a torch into the moat in his youth. It was surreal, watching the light grow fainter and fainter till it was all but invisible.

It had terrified him then, but he had lost his fear of such trivialities now. What drew his attention was what rested in the centre of the platform. A coffin; carved from the rock itself, without a seam or a bump to show for it. Bands of light pulsed along its sides and there was the ever-present hum one heard as they stepped onto the platform. It was so faint, one could swear it was imagined and yet, it was ever present. The insides were seemingly moulded to the shape of the individual inside; his late mother.

She seemed ageless and as fresh as the day he sacrificed her, the knife wound on her neck seemed raw and yet with her eyes closed, she actually seemed peaceful. Obviously, his father didn't agree to his actions but the bottomless moat made disposals easy, including that of any bold witnesses. He took the cube and places it in a slot to the side of the coffin as his mother opened her eyes and smiled at him.

"My child, you have done well." He had long since learnt to avoid flinching at the voice, but it never truly got easier. Awesome and yet terrible, it was the sound of glass shattering and the crack of thunder made human. "I live to serve you."

Simple and true words with no hidden meanings; it was the best way to address a living goddess. She agreed as always as she beckoned and he knelt. "You are tired." It wasn't a question. "Tonight, you shall rest. You have earned it. There will be more fights to come, but for now; your gift as promised." A sword of purest light lay in her lap, as though it materialized from nothing. "Your kin have but a crude blunt tool, a piece of scrap long rendered worthless to my kind. This will serve you far better." A ghost of a smile graced her lips. "Use it with discretion."

Gratitude did not do his emotions justice, quite rare as he never felt much of it to anyone. His kin who believed in their superiority at being the guardians of a glorified woodchopper, what did they know of power? "I will. You have my enduring loyalty as always. Point me to the ones you want and I shall see that they fall." The smile _was_ there, he saw it now. A cold corpse with more warmth than his parents ever did.

"I know you shall. Rest for now. The night is ending and I will have to leave. Forge a new identity with the blood and use the knowledge within it. Rest Ser Gerold, for your work, is not yet done."


	20. Chapter 20: Retaliations

Retaliations

 **The lady of Winterfell**

"My lady", Ned sighed as they had their first meal together since she passed the Neck. He had met them in an inn, a day's ride south of Castle Cerwyn as the carriage made its laborious trek across the treacherous roads of the North.

"My lord," she replied, with a touch of coldness which she couldn't help. "I trust everything is to your satisfaction?" He grunted in reply. "Well, what is it then? Is it the mummer's carriage or the colourful guards which have put you in such a mood? Or is it the squires? I do understand that knighthood is rare, if not frowned on upon the north, but leniencies can be made for a lord paramount and…"

"Did you think that my irritation was just due to the _squires_?" he replied, snapping rather coldly. "What else could it be?" she replied in irritation. "You haven't been exactly forthcoming with your views to me." "You haven't given me any reason to do so. Don't forget, the last time I put some trust in you nearly ended with Winterfell sacked and…" he breathed in deeply as he tried to control his temper.

Catelyn was no less angry though she hid it better. "You entrusted me to run a castle, my lord. _Not_ to participate in a siege." With a twitch on his face, he replied, "It's a castle, my lady. What did you think it was meant to be used for, growing roses?" _So that's his tactic, clever_. Her husband was improving. "From what I remember, Winterfell does have roses in the glass houses. But for a siege I would have expected an army at the gates. Not a bunch of cutthroats inside the walls."

His gaze softened as he replied, "all armies are made of cutthroats, my lady. Cutthroats don't fight on the enemy's convenience. The ones who do tend not to remain an army very long."

She had missed this. The outsiders would see a quiet wolf in Ned, especially in comparison to Brandon but he did have a dry wit which suited him. It certainly irritated her, to no end at times. Still, it was better than the alternative. It seemed to have sharpened after the bastard left though she knew better than to mention him. If the gods were good, he would never have to be mentioned again. As for his _irritations_ , they could wait.

* * *

The meal was plain but after living on the road no rare meat at a royal feast tasted quite so well as the skewered chunks and slow-roasted sides served in the inn. After the meal, she tried distracting him as well as she could, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else. Sansa's reaction towards everybody else wasn't helping matters. She had blossomed in Riverrun, but now it seemed as though the North had caused her to wilt. _I probably would have looked similar, had father had me fostered here._ Still, in a strange land, one must keep up appearances, especially amongst people who were doing their best to prove that you didn't belong there.

A straw bed never felt as welcome as it did that night.

* * *

Her husband was never a deep-sleeper in the past. This night however, she could barely tell whether he was awake or asleep. If he _was_ asleep, he was having the most fitful dream imaginable based on how he seemed to growl and pant. She contemplated moving to another room when suddenly he quietened down. This wasn't a dreamless sleep however, he seemed rather, tense.

Tentatively, she grabbed his arm and shook him gently. Outside, a man screamed, a clash of blades and people started screaming. Inside, her husband opened his eyes and before she could realise what happened, he was hunched over her, a feral look in his eyes and a blade to her throat.

For an instant which seemed to last for an eternity, she saw her death before his humanity returned into his eyes and he got off her. Without a word, he sheathed the blade under his arm and ran out of the room.

"They're here!" he shouted in the corridor, and it was followed by the sound of doors opening and the scramble of a guard under attack. Through the noise, she could hear Sansa crying, a noise which was steadily growing louder.

Ned burst back into the room, dragging a wailing Sansa roughly by the arm as the sound of blades clashing and men screaming could be heard in the distance. "Cat, get dressed quickly! They're here!" "Who's here? Ned, what's going on?!" His reply was drowned out Sansa's cries and the sound of what appeared to be an army at the doors.

Ned hugged her and Sansa gently and marched outside, locking the door behind him. All she could hear was men screaming and dying. Blind panic took over her as she clasped Sansa tightly doing her best to shield her daughter from any who might come to harm her.

* * *

She could see the sky lightening as the screaming lessened. For a moment, she thought it was the sun rising until she realised that the window was facing the west and that sunrise wasn't supposed to be accompanied by the smell of burning. The smoke rose from under their feet and although she did her best to shield Sansa, she found it harder and harder to stand or think. The last thing she remembered was the door being broken down and being carried out as the world went black.

 **The Lord of Winterfell**

The world was afire. He could hear men shouting and dying and screaming. Madness had gripped the floor below and he stood practically naked in his night clothes, wielding a blade. It was hard to imagine that an hour ago, he was fast asleep. He was used to sleeping with a knife under his pillow. Yet, with Catelyn and Sansa nearby, he did not want to frighten them but old habits die hard. It would end up saving his life.

* * *

Apparently, wolves were nearby as he found himself in the nearby woods, warily approaching the road. He shook his head, trying to shake off unwanted thoughts, but his consciousness was latched as firmly as a tick. The wolf decided to ignore it and looked around at its pack.

After the war, the carrion had left a feast for scavengers and it wasn't just the crows who multiplied. A leaner form of the wolf, more akin to a wild dog than a true wolf had spread in recent years. Not as strong, fast or cunning as their larger kin, but fiercer, agile and as comfortable at feasting on carrion as on fresh prey. First sightings were reported by the crannogmen in the aftermath of the trident but were dismissed by castle maesters as superstitions. The Bolton rebellion, however, now not even the most stubborn of them could deny their existence. These spectres of the battlefield were a bad omen in the North and while not superstitious, Ned was unnerved at their silence and how they never seemed to howl like their larger kin.

Now inside their mind, however, he understood why. Wolves were hunters but these animals were killers, plain and simple. A wolf would look at an elk and see a challenging prey. _Th_ ey, however, will see a piece of meat, albeit one still moving and yet edible. The thoughts disgusted him but he didn't dare to leave, for in their sights was a small group of men, wearing fish-head helms and trout sigils.

The helms threw the wolves off, never having seen or imagined such a creature, but meat was meat. Even the presence of the second mind, they wouldn't be kept from attacking and feeding. Until that was, a second scent caught their attention.

The smell wasn't as fresh. There was a hint of rot, blood and dirt to them. A small horde of what were once men. Their tattered cloaks were caked in mud but a sigil was clearly visible; the flayed man. These creatures had a mad gleam to their eyes, so twisted that even the carrion beasts were hesitant to approach them. Then as one as though prodded by some unseen sign they advanced as one.

They made no noise as they crept towards the inn, no one noticed as an out-rider was pulled off his horse and gutted silently and no one noticed as the men stuck to the shadows and started to butcher the fish-headed guards. They _were_ noticed, however when one of the men was too distracted looting the dead as a Stark guard walked right next to him. The guard had his throat ripped out and the looter ended with a spear in his guts. The screaming woke everyone up and in a panic; someone must have dropped a torch or lantern. As the broken men fought tooth and nail, literally in some cases against the freshly woken guardsmen and a few well-armed guests; the flames spread. He didn't see the rest, however, as the wolves that had been creeping quietly towards the scent of fresh blood now lost all restraint and surged forward. His senses were overwhelmed with blood and fire and he woke from his dream.

With the taste of blood still fresh on his lips, it took him to realise that the terrified face in front of him was that of his wife and he removed the knife from her throat. Sheathing it, he knew that there was no time for an explanation if there was one and after a few hasty words of caution stepped outside.

* * *

The first man he killed nearly made him pass out from the stench as he had apparently soiled himself on more than one occasion. The second had foregone any attempt at fighting with a blade as he was apparently driven insane after being blinded in one eye. Ned finished the task with his knife by driving it through the other one. A third man elected to jump atop him and tried to bite and scratch at his throat. Ned blocked it with the knife, slitting his mouth open in the grim mockery of a smile before smashing his head against the stone floor.

By this time, however, the fight had nearly ended. The crazed men would leap head first onto armed men with their blades drawn while armed with wooden clubs and knives, biting and scratching as much as using their weapons. While terrifying to behold, it strained their numbers and they had retreated. A few of the guards had ridden after them to cut them down in vengeance, leaving the rest to lick their wounds.

Ned, however, didn't have time to worry about that as he was too busy battering the door down. Inside, he saw his wife, clutching their daughter in the middle of the bed as smoke rose around them. For a painful moment, he saw his father there, smoking and burning and Brandon; cradling what was left of him. The sudden fury which he had struggled for so long to control rose up unbidden from within and in a second's madness he saw the mad king's cackling face and a desire to swing ice to get rid of it. Controlling the sudden madness he carried out his wife and daughter, hoping that he didn't pass out as they did from the smoke.

The stairs were a struggle, and getting past the door would have been impossible had it not been for the guards who carried him when he couldn't. Safe outside in the cold air, he saw his wife and daughter breathing peacefully and passed out.

* * *

They had started the journey on horseback but now, more than half of them were sent in carts. Ned and his family were trapped in the lurid, extravagant monstrosity and the wounded guards in simple farmer's wagons. He couldn't help but envy them as while he was hemmed in by wood and perfume, they would see the open countryside and breathe fresh air. It also didn't help his dignity to travel something which would fit a courtesan more than a Northern lord.

The stark guards had become habituated to expect ambushes and carried a weapon even when asleep and so fared well, barely losing two or three men. The trouts, on the other hand, were cut down by a quarter and as the ones who were roused were mostly unarmoured, the festering wounds would probably kill more of them than the battle did.

As they neared Castle Cerwyn, he insisted on riding with his men. If he were to show up in a carriage to his closest and direct vassals, he might as well put on a dress and paint his face as it possibly couldn't lower his standing further.

As he struggled to stop himself from falling off his horse, he almost regretted it but seeing his vassals stand proud and true, he knew that he had made the right choice. Even when bloody and slightly singed, he was their lord, not a ham. The men would have to recover, bodies would be buried, his family treated and the monsters hunted down. For now, however, he could finally rest.


	21. Chapter 21: Conversations

Conversations

 **Between wolves**

"Why did you do it?" "Try to chase down a rabbit?" "No, why did you choose this? You are not the first person in this land to hear voices. You were given a choice. You could have ignored Clay; you could have ignored us as so many have done. Yet, you chose this path, why?"

Jon sighed at that. The day had been going so well. A patient gullible farmer had agreed to take him down south past the twins and the Gods Eye and Myriam, Dobby and Mary had stopped laughing at his disastrous attempt to chase down a wild rabbit after his bowstring snapped. Even Achilles had stopped bringing it up, mostly. He had decided to just enjoy the day for once and let his guard down when Connor came by with a look of determination which hinted to a lot of unpleasantness in Jon's future.

The question which followed proved it to be true. Jon paused, unsure and a bit unwilling to answer. "Do I have to answer?" "Everything is permitted, but it _will_ have consequences. If you can't trust us now, when there is no danger around you and you have all the time in the world, when can you trust?" "Very well. I chose this life because no one else will." "What?" "That is what you said, isn't it? When you were asked why did you persist in your actions? It fits my situation quite well." "Is that what you really believe?" "It's what I know. Lord Stark is… the Lord. All the knights, guards and lords have their places. Robb is meant to be heir and Lady Stark" he grimaced "intends to sell off Sansa and Arya for influence. They have their roles, all of them. I have no such role. People keep telling me that I have freedom to choose, but I never asked for it. Winterfell is never meant to be mine, I will _never_ be a knight or maester or septon and if I do stay in Winterfell, all I'll ever hear is the story of the Bastard of Winterfell who spreads chaos wherever he walks and whose survival depends on his cousin's magnanimity." "And?"

"Did you expect more?" "Jon, there are people who go their entire lives without that revelation. I can understand if what we taught you had some effects your way of thinking and speech, but that is not what I mean. It was too… eloquent, rehearsed." "It was the truth." "Nothing is true. You may believe this to be true, but there is more to it, we both know that. I swore to protect my village and its people after I watched my mother burn alive. Even after that, it still took me _years_ to decide on this the time, I too believed in my cause, the salvation of my village, but there was more. I had wished that I would be more than the child of the affair between a failed clan mother and a traitor. That's what drove me to this path." "How is that any different to what I am doing?" "Before you met us, you had a near perfect family. You were Brandon's son; at least that was what you believed too. You _saw_ the painful truth in this realm, the collective suffering of humanity over untold generations. It terrified you; we all know that to be true. You could have hidden it, buried it or run away but you didn't. You flinched as anyone would, so tell me; why did you look again?"

Jon was quiet after that, but Connor knew of his silences and held his own. Time passed in the real world, as it does but Connor kept his silence. He knew that the boy was thinking and knew better than to interrupt, lest he make him hesitate or scare him off. After a while, he started talking again. "Mentor?" "Yes?" "I have an answer." "Good. What is it?" "I wanted to pay my debts, mentor." "Your debts? You are barely half a grown man's age Jon. Killing someone doesn't change that. What debts could you have?" "The debts in my inheritance mentor. My first memory, wasn't seeing my parent's marriage, it, it was…"

Jon stopped at that, the memories all too unpleasantly clear. Like draining a wound, he cut into his memories and started speaking. "I… I remember burning, mentor. I remember _smelling_ myself cooking as a madman laughed at me. I heard my _son_ kill himself trying to save me, and I heard myself screaming. I realised who I was, Rickard Stark, my grandfather from my _mother's_ side of the family. The memory of the wedding was a farce in every sense of the word. I dreamt of killing Rhaegar mentor, and I did. Over a hundred times, I killed him but I could not pay him back for what he did. For what grandfather Rickard had to suffer."

It was easier to speak now. "This was before I met Clay. All I knew then were the memories of my uncle and grandfather, the pain and suffering which my parents caused them and especially by my _other_ grandfather. I _hated_ them all for it. I would visit Grandfather's memories often, just so that I can share the pain and he wouldn't have to suffer so much, but it was never enough, I was never strong enough. For a time, I hated Lyanna too, but I saw her memories and no one should have to suffer as she did."

"Did you look into Rhaegar's?" Connor _knew_ that this question couldn't be answered without pain, but it was best that the painful confessions were done with. Jon didn't seem to agree as his face twisted in repressed ugly memory. "I remember _doing_ , but… no one should have to go through that; a glimpse into that madman's mind. I saw his _schemes_ , his delusions of grandeur and how he made people dance on strings. Robert Baratheon was far too kind to him." "Fair enough."

"It was _after_ that, that I met Clay. I wanted vengeance, not justice, Clay taught me. I do not know if he had read my thoughts, but he _did_ sympathise. I wanted vengeance on the mad prince to clear my conscience. Clay advised me to do so by seeking justice. That's why I looked deeper Connor. Winterfell and the Starks would endure with or without me. So would the North. However, only _I_ could forgive myself for the circumstances of my birth. Only _I_ could learn to do something with my life. So Connor, I took this path, not for vengeance or a greater good, or for the balance of freedom and chaos or the will of greater beings but for absolution. I did it to clear my debts Connor, because no one else can or will."

* * *

Nothing else needed to be said after that. In Westeros, he was asleep in the back of a cart. In a higher realm, he was leaning against the railings of a small wooden bridge, fishing as the sun set behind the mountains to his back. There were trails and hardships to come, but for now, all was right in the world.

 **Between mentors**

"Mentor Auditore." " _Buon pomeriggio_ Mentore. It is not often that we find _Il vecchia aquila_ descend from his lofty mountains and grace our humble abodes. _Grazie. Grazie._ To what do I owe for this pleasure?" "Your pupil." "My pupil? I have had so many, and it grieves me to say that a few millennia of purgatory and grief does wear one's memory. Could you elaborate? Also, before we get down to this business, let us take a small selection of wines. Even in _Purgatorio_ , we get surprisingly good years."

The coldness emanating from the shade of Altaïr seemed to snuff out every hint of warmth from the air around them. Seeing how they were in a replica of Ezio's old villa in Tuscany with a summer sun high in the air; that was quite an accomplishment. "Is this your pathetic attempt to delay me, or are you incapable of _not_ being insufferable?" "So; a sober meeting then? Tsk-Tsk. What is it about having your soul ripped out that has made you so hollow? I have no reason or ability to delay you by denying you information that _I don't have_. Also, I have _seen_ Altaïr, whatever that it is that you are or believe to be, you are a pale imitation _at best_."

The _thing_ smiled at that, a terrible sight to behold as for a moment, it seemed to flicker. "Is that, fear I detect, O brave and fearless Assassin? You are aware of mine, or should I say, Altaïr's views on the soul. So tell me, what would a construct like yourself; with the identity of a man dead for millennia know _anything_ about the soul?" "What is a man, but the sum of his memories? They are indeed the _bones_ of the soul. It may be true that I died, in view of my child and wife, so long ago, but that is irrelevant. I _am_ the story that is told of me, by myself and others. I know that, so did Desmond, so does Clay, so did Bayek, Connor and yes, even you. As long as those memories exist, in whatever form, so do I."

The thing sensed something, a hint of fear, mayhaps? It took the bait and pulled up a chair. As it grasped the wine glass, it turned cloudy and the moment the red vintage passed his lips, it turned as black as maester's ink. With black stained lips, it spoke.

"A charming speech, but what is left of them? When did you last see the Prophet? Where are the remnants of the founder? Has the storyteller found a way to become even more irrelevant and has the wolf scurried with its tail between its legs? So tell me _construct,_ before I erase your memories further, where is the boy?!" "Everywhere." "Very well, then you can meet him."

The shade flickered and warped, fragmenting at the edges like glass as it drew its blade and plunged it into Ezio's heart. Ezio flickered for a moment, but he appeared unperturbed, "you are welcome to try again." The shade withdrew its hand in shock, only to be wheeled around by a visitor who slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. The face seemed to crumble but the figure seemed to bristle in fury, its edges sharpening like glass. In response, the man pulled out a sword from thin air and blasted the shade with a beam of light, apparently crippling it.

" _Narratore!_ I'm afraid that you missed my speech. If only I had a better audience, it would have been quite a spectacle." "I'm sure that it was, Mentor. For now however, this place is rather unstable. This parasite does have some fragment of Altaïr's memories trapped within it. We can't destroy it without risking them." The shade must have heard them, as it began to chuckle in a voice akin to flint scratching on glass. The two men looked at the miserable thing and left it lying scattered on the floor.

As it began reforming itself, the world started crumbling as it realised in horror at the trap it had placed itself in, by accepting the invitation of the cocksure assassin, believing it to be an act of cocksure arrogance. This wasn't a memory, it was a dream, and it was ending.

* * *

Little did Jon realise, as he woke from a forgotten dream that a malevolent entity of _thought_ was vanquished in the shade of a villa amongst fine wines and two benevolent shades of dead men were recovering a fragment of the soul of the man who risked oblivion to save them all.

 **Between Parents**

Ned smelt burning wood and a hint of what appeared to be… "You must try the Ale. It's surprisingly good." Ned didn't remember passing out. Neither did he remember apparently entering a tavern or meeting a strangely dressed man who was patiently waiting for him to taste the ale. Ned looked at his tankard and saw what appeared to be just ordinary ale and took a sip. Whoever he was, he was right about the ale.

As the man didn't seem willing to make any introductions, "well met good Ser, but I am…" "…Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell; son of Rickard Stark, brother to an elder Brandon Stark and now the present Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Unfortunately, I do not hold as many elaborate titles but it would have to do. So let me introduce myself; I am Haytham Kenway of the Kenway line, former grand master of the colonies and at present, one of the few sane men you will meet, in this world or yours. Also, Master Kenway would do, knighthood is a worthless extravagance for someone in my position."

"'This world'?" "Pardons?" "You said, 'this world'. Where am I?" "In a tavern, as you can see. The Green Dragon _does_ double as an inn but its amenities do leave something to be desired." "There is no such inn or tavern in the Winter-town." "I never said there was. This is what it looked like, in Boston, though unless by some miracle there is such a place here, I don't suppose you would know where that is. It doesn't make much sense to an uninitiated, so it would take you a while."

The world had changed quite unpleasantly several times in Eddard's life, but he knew that he had a limit at some point. Apparently, it was a southern fop who rambled like a philosopher oblivious to his confusion at waking up to a tavern and talking about places which didn't exist. "What do you mean by that? Start speaking sense, or don't bother speaking to me."

The man took a drink and grimaced as though he tasted something foul, "Such rudeness. Compared to you Jon seems to be the very soul of courtesy." His irritation was gone, like an ember doused in ice-cold water, replaced with concern. "What have you done to Jon? Where is he?" "Calm down. He is in good hands, and also with my son." "Your Son?" "Yes, an interesting tale for another time. The important thing is that he is safe. Now, I believe you have some questions?" _Is he serious?_ "I don't mean to sound rude, Master Kenway; but can I trust that? Even If you gave me your word, what is it really worth?"

"You _are_ insistent, or should I say, irritatingly stubborn. It must run in the family. Very well; let me give you a demonstration to put your mind at ease." He reached inside his cloak and drew out a small blade. Without warning, he swiped it across Ned's hand and a sliver of blood welted up across the top. Ned instinctively drew back his hand but before he could retaliate, Haytham had flipped the knife and offered it to him hilt first.

Ned froze, this wasn't what he had expected but Haytham waved the knife in front of him. "Well, go on then. I did promise you a demonstration." Ned grasped the knife, somewhat unsure until Haytham laid his hand, palm downwards on the table, waiting expectantly. Ned grabbed the blade slightly tighter, willing his body to not waver and swiped his hand, aiming for a cut similar to his own. The blade passed by in a blur but Haytham didn't even flinch. The hand lay unblemished on the table and so did the blade.

Haytham waited patiently, silent and expectant. Ned swiped again, and the results were the same, and again, and again. Before he could swing again, Haytham's other hand shout out and grabbed Ned's wrist. Grabbing the knife, he flipped it over so that it was suitable for stabbing. Pointing it towards the palm, he instructed; "strike true, and do not hesitate." Ned didn't.

A small thud followed by the sound of wood splintering and the knife's tip was buried in the wood, passing cleanly through the hand as though it were made of smoke. Haytham smirked and pulled his hand back, the flesh parting like water and knitting back unblemished. The knife itself lay imbedded until he grasped the hilt and closed his fist. The hilt crumbled like sand and vanished, followed by the blade, leaving behind nothing but a nick where the blade once stood.

Ned sat there, silent and staring at where the knife once stood until Haytham began speaking. "If I chose to, Lord Stark, I could snap your neck with a snap of my fingers of behead you with a thought. On the other hand, you hold no power over me. I _could_ do that if I had been vindictive enough to try but fortunately for you, I'm just a messenger. So, shall we cease this pointless line of questioning and hear me out?"

Ned nodded. "Very well, here it is. Jon wanted to inform you that he is well. At of now, he is past the borders of the North, so unless you want the rest of the realm to know, he would prefer that it was kept quiet. He was insistent on the fact that he acted on his own in planning and executing his escape. He asks that you try to be at peace as regards to his decision and not to worry about what Lyanna would think of this. She knows about his actions so you don't have to worry about your wife's health. Speaking of whom, Jon asks that you forgive her and let her return. You are of course free to do otherwise but this is with the best of intentions towards everyone. If you can't, at least pretend to do so. He was quite specific about the fact that Robb needs his mother and that your daughter Sansa needs her mother. Personally, I believe that the North can't afford more strife with its neighbours and it would be best for everyone that a modicum of normality is restored. It's a bit more impersonal, but our goals are aligned. So good luck to you, Lord Stark and I wish you good fortune in the days to come."

* * *

Ned awoke in his bed, unusually without the nightmares or headaches which came with it. He raised his head and spied the pitcher of wine next to his bed. Resisting temptation and ignoring his protesting body, he stretched out his stiff form and walked towards a table.

With no sounds except the scratching of quill on paper and the servants waking outside, he absent-mindedly scratched his hand. There it was; bright as day, the cut left by the blade in his dream, a bright red line, distinct against his pale skin when he tightened his fist but almost indistinguishable when he loosened it. He was not the type of man to believe in divine portents, the fate of his father and brother had beaten it out of him, but he knew a sign when he saw one.

Ever since he had met the hooded man in Dorne, he had long since accepted, albeit grudgingly that he was to be a part of events which he could barely comprehend. All he wished for was to be left in peace and if that meant that he had to put on a mask and write a few unwanted letters, he would do so.


	22. Chapter 22: Arrivals

Arrivals

 **King's Landing**

Jon had hated the city of London. Being used to the cold emptiness of the North, the quiet homestead of Davenport, the idyllic vineyards and villas of Tuscany and Monterrigioni and the mountains of Masyaf, the crowded, pungent, humid rat's nest of a capital was an unbearable hell. The people seemed to do their best to exceed each other in arrogance, aggressiveness and plain reckless stupidity and in more than one occasion, Jon had to be saved by Evie from getting himself killed after being provoked into attacking and killing the wrong man. The last time he did, her lout of a brother delayed her long enough for him to be carted off to prison 'to be taught a lesson'. He pushed Jacob off a chimney the next day. He survived, but that was irrelevant, and unintentional.

Evie _was_ a good teacher, but if his interactions with Miriam proved anything, it was his inability to converse with a non-familial member of the opposite sex. Evie's presence proved it beyond a doubt and being distracted, he must have fallen off of every roof in London at least once. Finally taking pity on him; she handed him over to her husband, a man who appeared somewhat as a halfway between a Dornishman and a Summer Islander. Henry was courteous, patient and knowledgeable and spent the first day of tutoring letting him admire the various blades he had lying around within arm's reach with a quick demonstration, just in case Jon retained some of the mind-set of most Westerosi noble boys regarding attractive women like Evie. Jon didn't and they got along splendidly.

* * *

Still, for all of his complaints about London, the occasional park visit in Westminster was in every sense of the word; a breath of fresh air. The unholy mass of humanity in Westeros which dared to call itself a capital however, was built on hills with the river running off pointlessly past the walls. There had been fires in the past, but unlike London, nobody bothered to actually rebuild with any semblance of sanity. The sheer mass of unwashed bodies alone turned the air to poison and on its best days, there would be at least three or four epidemics running rampant in the worst parts of Flea Bottom. For its first impressions, King's Landing certainly didn't disappoint.

From the moment he entered the gates of the city, Jon knew that it would be futile to disguise himself as a Southerner. Henry had made it clear from his own experiences that pretending to be someone he clearly wasn't, wouldn't work. The best disguises needed some element of truth in it. So, while seeking atonement, as the ghost of London he had started as a labourer so Jon too, could start as a sell-sword or something similar.

On old instincts, Jon had _almost_ started to protest against acting like a smallfolk until Jacob dragged his unwanted form through the door and suggested that if Jon wanted to lie on his backside all day then he could seek employment in a pillow house. Jacob was somehow still limping from the previous day's injury and apparently wasn't taking it so well. Before Jon could reply however, the mood was much improved when Lady Florence dragged Jacob out by the ear for escaping from his bed.

When Jon asked him about Jacob's lingering injury, Henry knowingly gestured for silence and carried on, stating that if he did have any complaints to his suggestions, it would be better for the elders; Giovanni, Achilles, or Haytham to discuss it with him. That shut him up.

* * *

Henry was also the one who informed him about the abandoned house. When the order was stronger, the Dornish cults had some safe houses hidden in plain sight amongst the mazes of the slums. Lacking any doors or windows, the only entrances were above through a trapdoor, or the tunnels below. Taking advantage of the labyrinthine side-streets, the houses around it appeared much larger on the outside. Being in the centre, a front could be created as necessary and its foot thick walls made the voices inside almost silent.

Bloodraven had destroyed most of these houses in his purges, but a few survived. One of which, was on the Street of Steel.

* * *

The streets were piled high with shit and he didn't dare to step into the less savoury parts of the city. So as any respectable apprentice would, he took to the roof where the air was much clearer. The sound of hammers masked his steps and judging from Ash's sight, he wasn't the only one on the roof. Urchins dotted the roofs, perching on the edges or judging from their movement, contorting through _really_ narrow passageways. Still, it wasn't his concern at the moment and if he could use them to "hide in plain sight" so much the better.

At last he reached the house, with the arrow and cross marking the trapdoor. He was about to approach it when he noticed it, the faint smell of fresh blood and on the door itself, a faint few drops of blood.

 **Winterfell**

The last time he had returned to these familiar walls, the surroundings were on fire. Now, the winter-town was rebuilt in stone and if Winterfell was akin to a great stone tree, the winter-town was the modest collection of smaller saplings which grew in its shade. The shadows were lengthening as they made their way and in the outer gates, they were met by a flood of newly settled refugees, inhabitants of the castle and a selection of the castle's animals. The hounds had started a baying chorus of welcome despite Farlen's best attempts to quieten them and the ravens circling above had followed suit. For the tired, hungry and slightly singed retinue, it was almost cheerful. If only the people reflected it.

They greeted him, their liege lord as it befitted his rank, especially after his help in repairing the Winter-town and gave a respectable berth to him and his men. His wife and daughter however were not so lucky. For every ten cheers which greeted him, a faint acknowledgement of Catelyn's existence could be heard almost hesitantly from the crowd. It was as though they were doing their damnedest to pretend she didn't exist, and her distant reception to those who did wasn't likely to endear them. Not that he could really blame her.

Sansa still had nightmares about the night and had grown deathly scared of fire. She would often wake up screaming from her dreams and he would find her clutching her mother who could often be found having fallen asleep at her side. It was a terrible way for her to journey back home and a foul omen if there ever was one.

As they reached past the inner gates, he slowed his pace and trotted up to the side of his wife, grabbing her hand and squeezing it gently. A rather empty gesture of comfort, but judging from his wife's reassuring smile, at least he was doing _something_ right. The feeling lasted for a few precious moments until they were met with the site of the welcome party led by Robb and flanked by Ser Martyn and Ser Rodrik, all bearing torches.

Ned cringed at the sight, knowing what would happen before it did and as expected; he heard Sansa start wailing again as a very concerned and confused castle looked on. Ned sighed imperceptibly, wondering how things could go worse. He found out very soon.

* * *

He had become habituated to sleeping in a cot next to the solar and it was a hard habit to break. So he went to his solar to rest in his cot rather than in the embraces of his wife. Unexpectedly however, there was someone already sitting in the chair next to it. As he looked at Lyanna, he couldn't help but think out loud that there wasn't enough wine in the cellars to help him get through the rest of the day.

Lyanna leaned forwards with a grin which would do an actual wolf proud and spoke, "It's been quite some time Ned. It's really been far too long. It was nice to meet you and see your children with my own eyes but that's not really why I'm here. Tell me Ned, where's Jon? Where's my son?"

 **Winterfell**

It had been well over a decade and Winterfell still looked mostly unchanged, mostly. Where there had once been wolves, now there was a little red haired trout in the castle. Admittedly, she was biased towards his scheming bitch of a mother and was quite tempted to shorten her by a head, or at least shave her bald but she had bigger things to worry about. The only child she should be concerned right now was her own.

* * *

Sneaking into the castle was disgustingly easy. She would have loved to have a discussion with Ned about his defences if it didn't make her work easier. So, with a maid's robe, she reached the heart of the north and after visiting the godswood to make sure Ned hadn't arrived yet, she waited till dusk as the torches were lit and the sound of hooves could be heard. She clambered up the walls to the roof of the armoury and after making sure that her silhouette was as well hidden as possible, she quietly clambered along the top of the bridge connecting it to the great keep, hoping that the few guards who remained would be far too blinded to notice her. As she climbed up the rough walls and hoarding holes no longer in use, she reached the window to Ned's solar and opened it gently.

Her stealthy entrance was fumbled however, as a child began wailing loudly, causing her to become distracted and loose her footing resulting in an undignified tumble. Any guards who might have heard her however, were apparently distracted enough with what was happening that she could straighten herself out and wait for her brother.

* * *

 _I'm going to kill him, slowly and painfully._ Lyanna had to keep herself from leaping from the chair and beating her brother to a bloody mess. Her restraint however was borne from the bouts of discipline forced on her and the cold sense of fear in her gut. Still, her blades were extended almost as though they could hear her thoughts and judging from Ned's face, he must have too. Calming herself, she retracted her blades and tried with great difficulty to calm down.

"Ned, _where is my son?_ " "I… I… don't know Lya. I thought he was with you. Jon told me that he would leave but from what I've heard, he must have gone either to the south or the free-cities." "Why the hell would you think that?" "I swear on the Old Gods Lya, that is all I know. It's hard to believe but I had received a message from Jon. The messenger told me that Jon thought that you would know this." It painfully began to make sense, her boy _had been having_ visions from what Ned had told her, but she had assumed it to be the wolf blood and waking up in him, along with whatever dragon taint he might have had. Whoever this messenger was, he would be dealt with later. She had _some_ idea of what Jon was capable of, but this…

They had been dead in the free cities for centuries and there was nothing in Dorne but death… _Oh no_. "Ned." "Yes?" "I beg of you Ned, please, if you think of him as your blood, do whatever you can to make sure that he doesn't reach Dorne. Please, this will be the last thing I ask of you, but please, don't make him reach Dorne. I can't see him die." She didn't remember falling to her knees and didn't remember Ned joining her. He had whitened to a pallor fit for a corpse but there was still resolve in his eyes "I'll do what I can. We both know that Robert can't know, but I'll send scouts to every city and every inn on the roads between here and Dorne. I _will_ find him." Numb from shock, all she could do was nod numbly, doing her best to avoid seeing a faceless _thing_ strike down her son. Her baby boy who was a true Stark in a way she would never be.

Time passed and she composed herself. The numbness and fear was still there but the anger had faded, to be replaced with suspicion, and worry. "Ned?" Her brother grunted in reply as he feverishly listed as quickly as possible the names of every possible inn and a list of who could be entrusted for the task. "What did the messenger look like?" Ned's quill skidded and fell and he clenched his fist. "What?" "You mentioned a messenger, Ned. What did he look like?" "It was in a vision Lya. It claimed to be some form of ghost, but it was more than likely Jon disguising himself to avoid me caning him." "Ned, please, now is not the time for levity. Did the messenger have a name, what did he wear, how did he speak, what did he look like, did he have one eye? Tell me."

Ned turned and faced her with an unreadable expression. "One eye?" "EDDARD STARK, ANSWER THE BLOODY QUESTION!" Ned jumped as expected, and as expected there was a scuffle outside the door. Ned swore quietly at the noise and answered, "As you wish. The messenger or ghost was wearing a blue travelling cloak of some form, a hat pointed at the sides, a ribbon in his hair and he offered me ale. I stabbed his hand clean through and it was like hitting smoke. He cut my hand and I woke with it bleeding. He had both his eyes but his accent was southern. Now, that's all I have to say about the matter." "The name?" "What?" "His name, Ned. You didn't mention that."

Ned tried to remember the dream, as much as he didn't want to to try and rack up the man's name from his memories. "Hay-something. Hay-thun-of-some-way-or-the-other." "Haytham? Haytham Kenway?" "Yes, that would be it." The fear seemed to melt, as not relief, but some hope seemed to fill her and she realized how tired she truly was.

She spied a jug of wine and without bothering for a goblet she lifted it up and drank half in one go, judging that it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. Before she could pass out however, _'I've saved you half Ned'_. She offered him the jug which he took hesitantly, and before she lost her wits, she said what needed to be said, "I'm truly thankful for you Ned. I truly am, even if I'm terrible at showing it." She might have cried a bit at that so in order to cover up her weakness, she plastered on a bright smile, "So; in order to avoid causing a scandal by vomiting over the warden of the North, would you mind if I spend the night here? You can lock the solar and go fuck your wife while I fuck off by early morning?"

Ned nodded slowly at that, probably judging it to be the safest reply. _He's still the sweet little boy I remember. I'll talk to the one-eyed bastard tomorrow, but for now, I have to pass out._ Giving him a sloppy kiss, she shut the door behind him and passed out on the cot.

 **King's Landing**

Inside a certain windowless room in one of the many inns of Oldtown, three corpses of different captains lay stuffed under the floor. By the time anyone would find it, the bodies would be far too rotted to identify. The first had been a Tyroshi, some brandy trader who tried to cheat him on fares. It angered him so he slit his throat and shaved him to get rid of the identifiable dyed hair. In hindsight, he came to regret the decision seeing the limited options to follow. The second captain was an orphan of the Greenblood. Whether he was being tracked or whether he was just unlucky, he couldn't afford to be recognized so the captain ended up dead just the same.

By the time the third came along, he had been trapped in the city for nearly two weeks. He didn't dare leave now on a trader, lest he draw more attention from the city. Sailors were a talkative lot and when two captains vanish after talking to the same man, a _Dornish_ man at that, tongues start wagging. The only choice he had was a smuggler's skiff, but the cleverer ones tended to avoid him and the bolder ones were undoubtedly planning to rob him. It was around the time when his temper was strained and his nerves were raw and ragged that a drunken fool tried to attack him. Only when he had finished gutting him did he realise that it was a _highborn_ fool.

Cursing his mistake, along with every noble, guard, and captain in the city, he quickly stuffed the body in the hiding place until he noticed the sigil; a golden cup in a field of burgundy, apparently a minor Arbor lordling. A flash of inspired madness struck him and he disrobed the man and put on his clothes. As he stepped outside, for the first time since leaving Dorne, he threw caution to the winds and led his instincts guide him. _Guide my, my lady. Show me the path to fulfil your wishes._

The lady obliged and the way _shone_ for him. He put a foot forward, and another, and another as they led him towards his destination; a humble trader of Volantene origins judging by the sails, but with a suspiciously luxurious interior. The guards looked at his clothing rather than his face, and he entered without difficulty. The captain _did_ notice him but more importantly, the sound of gold dragons in his pouch. He had expanded his funds considerably during his visit so he didn't have to worry about running dry. Few words were said and by the time they had moved past the prying eyes of the Oldtown Harbourmaster's guards, he had a tattooed serving girl in his lap and another polishing his blade; the one mounted to his wrist. He had a taste for blood but for now; other appetites were to be taken care of.

* * *

The city smelt of shit and that was all he had to say in the matter. Still, for all it took to get here, it could have been a lot worse. As he walked past the gates, he could still hear the people screaming, as a Volantene trade ship burned at the port, taking a chunk of the quays and the people's attention with it. He was so close now, so close that he almost dared to smile.

The house was easy to find, a shit-stained ugly lump in a city filled with shit stained lumps. Hidden in plain sight indeed, but the Goddess' sight allowed him to see, the sigil burned into the frame of the house; a bird's skull mounted on a four-petaled flower. He got up from his perch, ready to step in when…there, only one of _them_ would bother moving across the roofs rather than just using the street.

Looking at his prey, he stretched his legs and moved. A blade drawn, a shadow passing quickly by the rooftops, a small leap and as the boy turned around, he savoured the look in the boy's purple eyes as he plunged his blade into his heart and… wait. The boy had purple eyes. From what he had heard, the bastard was a pure Stark in looks, this… thing didn't. It was then he noticed the rest. The boy was undoubtedly pale as a Northerner would be, but the hair was just covered in dirt, not brown. Beneath the dirt it appeared a pale blonde. He cursed at the thing lying dead beneath him; a Lysene boy whore had stolen the moment of his kill.

The straps on his wrist blade threatened to break as he clenched his fist in anger and for a moment, he was ready to give in and hack the thing to pieces for stealing his victory. As he drew the sword however, shame filled him. Lightbringer was meant for far better uses than this. He would not sully it with a whore's blood. He settled for disembowelling the boy with his dagger and tossing the guts off the roof. The limbs however… rations were scarce and some pot shops accepted anything. He opened the trapdoor and settled inside, waiting for his prey.

* * *

His prey came at dusk, after so many days. Ser Gerold couldn't recall how long he had been waiting here. The meat from the boy had been gone for a while and he had resorted to killing pigeons, rats and the odd unwitting pedestrian who came along. He didn't dare burn a fire, but times were getting desperate. Even the meanest of pot shops had become wary at his presence and in his irritability; he doubted whether he could resist the urge to hack them to bloody bits. Now however, his prey drew close.

Even amidst the remains of his latest kill, he could smell the boy; the fresh blood, pumping inside, waiting to be spilt. He had put on the mask and the robe and in the fading light of dusk, he was as good as invisible.

He saw the boy approach the trapdoor, seemingly an easy prey when the boy suddenly halted. He instinctively did too and waited; seeing the boy, twitching and sniffing and too late he realised his folly. _The blood! The boy can smell the blood._ The boy stood up and stood, quite still. Ser Gerold knew what the boy was trying to do so throwing caution to the wind, he ran at him, trusting in his vestments to keep him hidden and in lightbringer to end the boy.

A raven cawed overhead and pecked at his face as he ran and the boy turned to face him. He raised his blade and struck down, only for the boy to twist to the side. _He sees me._ He realised, a bit too late as he felt a sudden pain to his side. Looking down, he saw a sliver of red run down beneath his ribs as the robes had somehow parted right there and allowed it.

 _I've been stabbed._ He realised dumbly, his knees weakening and his vision blurring. The robes were supposed to heal all wounds, but… He could feel himself growing weaker and weaker, as he saw a glint of light before him. The boy had picked up the blade _Lightbringer_ , he recalled dimly and was grasping it with awe.

 _As he should, but that… Lightbringer, it's mine! Mine!_ With the last addled thoughts of a dying mind and with all his remaining strength, he tackled the boy off the roof and into the street below. He felt his back break and to his satisfaction, looking at the boy, he seemed to have broken his as well. _This isn't the end boy, I WILL kill you._

* * *

His lady had always been beautiful, but it wasn't until now that he had seen her truly angry. She was now, and on his knees in the depth of high hermitage, he was far too terrified to realise its rarity.

"My lady," he started, his voice crackling. "Please forgive me, I have failed you." The goddess of wisdom looked at him dispassionately and uttered one word, "No. You have not."

"My lady?" "You have done well, my vessel. I am _exactly_ where I need to be. Unfortunately, he is rather damaged. Your kind has always been so _fragile_." She smiled at that and her image faded away, leaving Ser Gerold cowering in the darkness.


	23. Chapter 23: Recovery Part 1

Recovery part 1

 **Euron**

His world was ugly. A shit-infested pit used to chain and store the most violent of slaves, the ones who were far too wild, even for the Volantenes. He had spent what seemed to be an eternity in the gods-forsaken shit-hole and yet, every time he closed his eyes, it might as well have been yesterday as he felt the flames licking up his sides, burning him as he hacked at his leg in wild abandon, the flames scarring and burning his skin as it cauterized his stump. What followed was him feebly paddling along, grasping a piece of wreckage as he was picked up by an opportunistic Volantene ship. The scavenger had mistaken him for a rower, conveniently excusing his lack of tattoos as being burned away in the fire and to reinforce it, had his cheeks burned by the cook. After a mutiny, he repaid them both in kind, by cutting off the captain's fingers and roasting and feeding them to the cook.

His luck turned on him however when the; the captain's personal slave guards refused to accept his rise and instead, cut down every rower and slave who followed him. When it came to him, they lashed him to the prow of the ship to enjoy the Drowned God's tender mercies and to his fury; the wet bastard didn't have the decency to kill him.

He was granted a little bit of vengeance however, as the tiger-striped guards had done their job far too thoroughly. Without a proper crew to sail or navigate, the guards starved and once they were done with eating the food, they started drawing lots and at first eating the remaining slaves, and then each other. It didn't last very long as the day _right_ after the last one died with a bellyful of rotting meat, the ship came to land.

However, when one pile of shit clears, another takes its place. There were more roaming slavers in the disputed lands and they had a habit of putting collars on anything moving. After surviving being tied to a prow of a ship; a collar was put on his neck and he was carted off to Volantis, the poxy whore of the free cities. Before he had survived being burned, he could have taken any maiden in Westeros, blue lips notwithstanding, quite willingly. After all this, he would have looked in place in a grotesquery, more dead than alive.

While his captors chewed on salted meat and ale, he drank from puddles and munched on insects. If his stomach didn't agree, he acted accordingly and searched for a cleaner puddle or a different bug. Time had lost its meaning and so to him, what seemed like the next day, he had reached Old Volantis.

* * *

Volantis smelt like a carcass, sickly sweet and rotting on the inside and the city reflected it. On the wrong side of the Long Bridge, far from the manses of the old blood, he was given accommodations amongst the many degenerates swept up by the slavers. His captors were paid in pennies, or what seemed to pass for pennies between them and he was tattooed with a knife and shackle; the mark of a Volantene pit fighter.

While fighting pits in the Free cities were nowhere near as common as in Slaver's Bay, such establishments often existed under different names, even amongst the Braavosi with their trappings of a slave-less city, Bravos were willing to spill blood with no provocation. Though compared to the Norvosi, such acts were benign. The Volantenes to their credit, acknowledged such actions by saying that if men were permitted cock-fights and horse races, why would the fighting of slaves be denied to them. Euron didn't care. For far too long, he had remained weak. Now, he was ready to fight back.

So he did. On a trail of broken bodies and in blood soaked back alleys and halls, tales of the bloody sailor, the one-eyed strangler grew. As his reputation grew, so did the crowd, both qualitatively and quantitatively and with the crowd, so did the money.

The better and more skilled the slave, the more wealth would be invested, which meant good food, drink, housing, women and actual weapons rather than rocks, sticks and teeth. If the slave was particularly obedient, it would end its life in a manse of the old blood, part collection and part armed guard. He didn't care, he would climb up, inch-by-bloody-inch he would rise up, even if he had to do so on a mountain of bodies.

 **Gerold**

The world was dark. A luckier man than him would have been hanged, but instead he was left to rot in the deepest part of King's Landing, where even the Targaryens would hesitate to step foot in. His body had begun to heal, but for every wound and injury that he recovered from, two more would take its place. The actions of little urchins, who thought it amusing to poke a caged animal with sticks. One of them got too close and so he ripped its arm off. It was the best meal he had in days and just for their amusement, his captors allowed him to finish his meal in peace before they started beating him.

Greater men would have been broken, but he had been broken a long, long time ago, and he just hadn't realised it. It was _her_ doing of course, and now, every insult, punishment and encouragement fuelled his resolve. One way or the other, he would break out of here, and once he did, well… if the price for breaking those false gods and their promises was the world burning, he would give the price willingly a thousand times over.

* * *

As he lay there lying, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a moving shadow. It was another urchin; moving towards his cage and clutching something in its hand. _If this one tries something foolish, I will break its neck and bathe in its blood._ The urchin threw the object towards him. It hit the bars of the cage with an audible ring before clinging softly to the ground. Gerold knew the sound of keys when he heard them.

As he freed himself, with reserves of strength that he didn't know he possessed, he considered killing the boy. Judging from his appearance, nobody important would miss him and he really needed the rations. On the other hand, the (boy?) had freed him, and it would be _un-chivalrous_ for him to do so. If worst came to the worst, he could make a gift of the boy to the Red Viper.

* * *

For an underfed urchin, the boy had remarkable speed and he was running himself into the ground trying to keep up after being imprisoned for what seemed to be half a month, but felt like years. The boy turned around and opened his mouth, showing a stump where a tongue would be, and handed him a scroll.

Gerold knew at once, the loyalties of his rescuer. Only one man or eunuch was known to use such means in his line of duty. The scroll meanwhile; was a far more tempting offer. Still, as he had nothing to lose, he might as well. Revenge was an acceptable goal to him, and if it meant that the crown would turn a blind eye to him 'punishing' his former captors, he would agree to grow feathers and serve _at least temporarily_ as a fat spider's pet bird.

 **Roose**

The world was cold. Yet, there were amusements to be had here. Right now, it took the form of two recruits being broken in by their trainers. They squealed like pigs and there was something to be said about how easy it was, to take someone who believed that they had reached at the bottom rung of life's ladder and to introduce them to many more below.

If they survived Ser Owen's tender ministrations, they should consider themselves lucky. To reach the end of civilisation and be battered by highborn in the yard was infinitely better than to be battered by unruly horses in the stables. Still, their grumblings could wait, for as of now; other amusements awaited him.

Inside the keep of the shadow tower, the aged and venerable Lord Mallister spent his last remaining breaths trying to convince 'Iron' Emmett about the necessity of his 'reforms.' Roose almost smiled at that, almost. It was Mallister's idea to assign him as a steward of the least important castle on the wall. Certainly an insult, meant for one of the most despicable highborn in the century which had the likes of Aerys Targaryen. Roose did nothing to discourage him, acting his usual cold self as the situation demanded. At the end, when he spent the remainder of his days behind a chair, counting beans, nails and potatoes, he almost dared to smile.

* * *

His work was always impeccable, something which even the prickliest officer agreed. Had it been in other circumstances, with his calm demeanour, he would have been welcomed with open arms. Still, there was always more to it. An amount was allotted for the daily rations of everyone in the Shadow Tower. Always a certain amount, carefully counted for by the stewards. Then he started to notice the signs. A ration of sour-leaf here, some milk of the poppy, a bit of wine even, never enough to arouse suspicion amongst those who counted them in the bulk, but quite within the limits of what a single man could carry off.

The records were kept, and Roose carefully copied them and kept the originals for safekeeping at the hands of the maester. Later that night in the dining hall; he revealed to the other officers about the possibility of someone stealing the watch's supplies. As expected, he was laughed off but Ser Denys, honourable Ser Denys agreed to post some guards. Guards were posted and upon further inspection, the records of further such incidents stopped.

Guards however, tend to get lazy when they are unaware of the gravity of their duty, that was how Emmett described it. Soon, _everybody_ in the Shadow tower knew about it. Emmett was reprimanded by Mallister and later that night; Roose was attacked in his own bed. Like any respectable watchman would, he kept a knife under his pillow and used his assailants' blood to redecorate his room. The second assailant however, responded by clubbing him in the head. When he awoke, he was being tried by the officers for treason. He had never felt so alive.

* * *

Mallister reminded him less of an old and majestic eagle and more of a tired old grandfather. His mannerisms betrayed that too, seeing how he seemed to speak to him in a manner befitting a mischievous grandson. Roose decided to humour him and asked to meet his accuser. To his somewhat surprise, the head Steward stood up.

He accused Roose of treason; of stealing from the maester's stores and the larders to sell and bribe people who were at the moment unknown, in order to escape from the wall. This was backed up by his 'Ironclad' evidence of how before his arrival, there was no such discovery of robberies and after Mallister kept the guards and the records were inspected more _thoroughly_ his claims of missing stores actually lined up perfectly with his arrival. He could have made the point without waving said records, but theatricality was never the man's strength.

His natterings however had started to bore him, so to shut him up, Roose started to laugh, _loudly_. That caught everyone's attention, and he held it as he continued speaking, letting some mirth enter his voice. He was often accused of sounding inhuman and while it had its uses, the opposite impression was something he sorely needed at the moment. Asking for permission to defend himself; he asked the maester to fetch him the _actual_ records which he had stored in confidence with the man.

Maester Mullin compiled and what followed was pure chaos. In living memory, no one had ever seen Lord Mallister be angry. It seemed impossible for a man of his countenance to be so and yet, the day was full of surprises. The head steward was marched out kicking and screaming by Qhorin and Emmett to meet the tender ministrations of Ebben.

The records revealed certain indiscretions with the ones produced by the head steward, made even more so seeing how the ones with Mullin were noticeably older and long before any claims of such indiscretions were made public. What ensured the hangman's noose for the head steward however, was exactly _who_ they were trading with.

The trials and confessions which followed succeeded far beyond Roose's wildest dreams. He had expected the man to have sold it off to the wildlings or some other wretch at this end of the world. He had never known that the man had the balls to be involved in abetting Slaver ships pass through northern waters and raid settlements along the frozen shore.

Wildlings being sold into slavery wouldn't have upset the men here but what did upset the people in command was a certain name; Ser Jorah Mormont, the Lord of Bear Island, who apparently had dealings with the scum of the east. Now _that_ was interesting.

The highborns apparently disagreed. Such an accusation, even from the watch could end them. In the end, this decision was out of their hands as apparently, the lord of Bear Island tried to flee. The matter was forgotten though after culling the corruption within the watch, the number of men who could do more than sweep or swing a blade had become severely depleted. Whatever he might have done in the past, couldn't match up to the necessities at present. So, the head of his closest rival and his most loyal men decorated the gates, he had an ally with the maester, he had risen in standing amongst thieves and he was now the head steward of the Shadow Tower. Just as planned.


	24. Chapter 24 Recovery Part 2

Recovery part 2

 _If this is what paradise is supposed to be, I would prefer hell_. There weren't a lot of choices for Jon in his current state, with a sprained back, broken ribs and twisted arm. To be fair, as whorehouses go, it could have been a lot worse. The food in Chataya's was better than in most inns and being clean for once was a priceless luxury. That didn't mitigate the fact that he suspected that somewhere, Jacob Frye was laughing himself to death.

 _Some apprentice I was, to be ambushed in broad daylight by a fool with a mask and be mistaken for a boy-whore._ Now he knew for sure that Jacob would be laughing about that at least. After nearly breaking his back, he was found alongside his attacker by some gold cloaks. After they were done robbing him of his remaining currency, they decided to "ransom" him off to Chataya's who for some inexplicable reason, obliged to pay, after some haggling.

He could have spent the rest of the day brooding over his failures when he was interrupted by Chataya herself. _Well, maybe this paradise is not entirely without its attractions._ _He_ had to admit, she was rather fetching, more handsome than beautiful and yet, her presence seemed to demand attention. She smiled kindly to a bastard like him and was unashamed of her and her daughter's lifestyle and yet to Jon, the noble bearing of a lady was clearer in her than in the likes of Lady Catelyn.

He got up, wincing at the jagged stabs of pain radiating from… everywhere as he tried to make himself appear respectable. She frowned at that, though it seemed to be more at the self-inflicted pain rather than his poor attempts at courtesy. Despite his protestations, he was led firmly by her towards the bed and made to sit.

"Sit, child", she spoke in a voice fit for commanding one and he couldn't help but obey. "In my house, I judge common sense to be higher values than pride. So, until I am satisfied that you won't cripple yourself _again_ , you won't be leaving bed-rest." He nodded weakly along, not daring himself to speak, lest he cry out as she changed his dressings.

After she was done, he continued. "My lady?" she hummed in response, gently rubbing his back to relax the strained muscles and alleviate the pain. "Why did you…" her hand tensed up and Jon couldn't help but cry out briefly at the pain. "Save you?" He nodded weakly. Chuckling gently, she picked up his bracer, and the blade that it held. He could do nothing but protest weakly, as the weight on his back seemed to increase whenever he tried to move.

Barely paying any attention to him, she fastened the blade and with a flourish, extended her palm. There was no hesitation, no tremor as the blade slid out noiselessly as she swung her arm in a graceful arc, with the tip barely an inch from his eye. He stopped squirming after that and with similar skill, she retracted the blade. For a moment she hesitated, a brief look of longing flashed across her face, to be replaced by resignation as she placed it on a table next to him.

Reaching down, she lifted the pillow pinning Jon down, fluffed it up and turning him around, she placed it behind his head so that he could sit up straight. Handling him the blade she replied, "Crude." Jon felt insulted at that. The bloody thing had taken half of his savings and half a dozen favours and just as many failures to even work and she…

He looked down at the bracer and words failed him. He didn't gasp like Sansa would, but still, what lay in front of him was a work of beauty. Gone was the blade, hammered from Mikken's scraps and broken knives and instead, what lay in front of him would be the envy of kings. Where before, he had crude springs and rattling hinges covered with banded leather, the pieces in front of him were covered in metal, plain but elegant and fit so snugly, he could dare that it would remain dry underwater. As for the mechanism, it was worth the patronage of the finest Braavosi tinkerer. He gingerly put it on, apprehensive of breaking something so invaluable and marvelled at the padded lining. While he used to be conscious of strapping a blade to his arm, now it felt like nothing more than an ornamented cuff, albeit far more dangerous.

He flexed his arm activated the trigger and the mechanism responded accordingly. The blade slid out noiselessly and firmly, five inches long and sharp-enough to cut through flesh and air alike. It was perfect. Placing it down gently, he remembered the adage of men and their swords and replied, "You're right. It _was c_ rude, and long and unwieldy. This is only five inches long, but I'll make it count." A look of shock appeared on her face for a moment, only to be replaced with a twitch before she joined him in laughter.

* * *

Of all the places he had been, a whorehouse would be the last place he would want to feel too comfortable in. It _was_ true that it was the friendliest company he had in a while, but despite the friendly company and the allure of Chataya's mysteries regarding her past, he couldn't afford to delay. While his wounds were healing fast, ( _unnaturally fast_ according to Chataya and the healer she employed), being bed-ridden for a week made him feel weak and helpless. There was also the mystery of his attacker.

Why she saved him was an obvious answer. It was hidden in plain sight; the cross and the arrow, intertwined in the intricate patterns in the woodworks and in the border of tapestries. Two orders at odds since their creation and now finally united in this world at the end of theirs. Still, all this was better left unsaid, the spider had ears everywhere and as much as he would have previously wished to resume his training, the news had broken him more than his injuries.

The order was dead. Their last stronghold in the seven kingdoms, Dorne had turned against them after the death of Elia and more than a decade of scheming had resulted in them being betrayed from within and purged. Atep's children, as the traitors were called, had employed some means long since restricted to only the highest members and ruthlessly used them against their own brothers and sisters. The _thing_ that he met outside the safe-house, was apparently one of their hired killers.

Barely a handful had survived and they had resettled in Hardhome. For over a month, he had been travelling in the wrong direction. All he had to do was apparently travel in the _opposite_ direction and he would have been spared a broken back. It would have been hilarious in a mummer's farce and seeing how he couldn't bring himself to cry, he nearly laughed himself sick after he found out.

* * *

Still, that wasn't the end of the myriad delights which awaited him, for as it turned out, a month into his recovery, he had gained a few new companions.

Theo Wull, Mark Ryswell and Howland Reed; Lord's Stark's most loyal followers and one of the few who knew the truth of his birth. Jon was surprised Ser Martyn Cassel, another one who knew wasn't amongst them but he didn't quite see eye-to-eye with the man. Still, he was loyal enough to Lord Stark to keep quiet about it. These three however, stuck out in the midst of King's Landing only as a clansman, a highborn northerner and a crannogman could. Still, like most men, their behaviour was predictable and apparently seeing what appeared to be a futile quest in front of them, they did as any loyal banner-man would and visited the most luxurious brothel they could afford. If some god wanted to make amends to Jon for his bad luck, this was it.

* * *

In the end, it took two pitchers of wine, one broken, a round of embraces and a hit or two before they relented in accepting the fact that he _couldn't_ return. Not with a mending back and without anything to show for it. He avoided mentioning the blade, though it was one of the _many_ temptations keeping him here. They agreed with a little incentive from Chataya, though she refused to let Jon partake, claiming that some of her more _vigorous_ employees could throw his back out before it was done mending.

Still, when the closest male company he had was a handful of perfumed Lysene boys who had never held a blade in their hands, sparring with someone, albeit with an improvised back-brace was still the closest he had to a few rounds in the yard.

The first time he had tried it, it had left his shoulders ringing as he had to relearn and adjust for fighting while holding his ground, rather than darting around a slower foe. By the end of the week, he could swear that had it not been for his limited mobility, he _might_ actually win against a full grown opponent. So it was lucky, that he had been armed the day the gold cloaks arrived.

* * *

He had been testing his strikes and bracings against Theo, while a small gaggle of bastards and mothers watched in the shaded courtyard. That was until he heard the screams. It wasn't that uncommon, as some patrons actually preferred or even requested it but there was nothing planned or pretentious about this one. Judging from the look on Theo's face, the older man agreed too and they rushed in.

Standing in front of one of the quartered stalls was what appeared to be a gold cloak. He stood guard and based on the screams and the sound of beatings, this _wasn't_ one of the services offered here. The guard saw them and pulled out his blade by an inch, daring him to come closer. Jon dared.

As the man withdrew his blade, confident in his mail and blade over Jon's non-existent armour, Jon raised his tourney blade with his right arm and with his left, threw a bowl of fruit in the guard's face. The guard flinched and covered his face, just as he hoped.

The chainmail wasn't of a knightly quality, but it would have made slashes useless even if he had a sharpened blade. Crushing blows on the other hand, were another matter. Jon swung the blade down, with as much precision as he could hope for right at the wrist. As expected, the blunted blade didn't penetrate the armour, but the wrist was almost certainly broken, judging from the grunt of pain elicited from the guard who dropped his sword and fumbled blindly for his dagger with his left hand. Jon didn't give him the chance, as almost unconsciously, his left arm darted out, quick as a viper. The viper bared its fangs and the guard slumped down, gushing blood from a puncture on his neck barely the width of his little finger.

Blood was thundering into his ears, at his first _proper_ kill. He was almost oblivious as his sparring partners dragged out the raper from inside the while the crying girl inside stall with no more than a towel to cover her modesty was comforted by Chataya, bearing clear signs of being beaten. His lack of awareness at the time would be a source of shame in the days to follow and for years to come, but for now he was oblivious to it all. The blood rushing in his ears had muted all sounds and outside of the man in front of him, all senses seemed to fog and dull. The man was still alive, choking on blood as Jon picked up his head and with the solemnity the moment asked for, asked him for his final words. This was his first confession.

The guard responded by spitting blood and spit on his face as he shuddered and died with his last act of defiance. It was like a bucket of cold water was thrown over him, as the sudden shock cooled his blood and the fog surrounding the world cleared away. His senses returned and brought with it his shame. He could hear the girl crying as she was comforted by Chataya and Howland with the raper's threats of violence and pleas for mercy as he was beaten by Theo and Mark and the smell of blood, incense and fruit lingering in the air. Numbly, he closed the man's eyes and stripped off his armour before dragging him off to the courtyard to be buried.

* * *

The girl had nightmares for months on end, though nobody could blame her for that. One or two of Chataya's employees tried, the older women who had experienced such in their youth, and some of the men who served as guards but let it happen. Chataya took care of the former and Jon and his guards took care of the latter.

The prisoner; remained defiant after realising that he wouldn't be killed, even after being beaten by Theo and Mark for a better part of the day. Howland offered to take over after they agreed to rest for a while in disgust. Within an hour, he had subjected the man to a wide-selection of the Crannog-men's most sadistic choices of poisons with the only restriction being that the prisoner had to remain alive. An hour later, the man was begging for mercy and agreed to confess with the promise of being freed and ransomed to his employer. Jon reminded him that his employer was unlikely to be very-welcoming of him after this and managed to 'convince' him to take the black, the implicit threat being that he would otherwise be given over to the tender ministrations of Howland Reed.

He confessed.

* * *

Chataya had more than just a blade ready for him. She was more than well acquainted with the better establishments of the Streets of Steel and Wool. They had long discarded the robe after Dorne, but a travelling cloak was universal in Westeros. In King's Landing, anything above an arming doublet screamed wealth in a thief-ridden city, so the cloak was faded and dirty enough to avoid suspicion. This one however was equipped with sewn metal plates and hidden pockets. She also took the time to track down what remained of his armour, and Jon couldn't thank her enough for that.

His back was still mending, but he could walk, and even run briefly with a brace. His combat stance _did_ leave a lot to be desired however and it would be unlikely that he would be able to jump from rooftop to rooftop for a while. Still, there was more to his goal than that. His three companions had offered, nay _insisted_ that they assist him so by the help of a discreet blacksmith, the looted armour was made to fit Mark as Theo's heavier accent would have made him stand out and Howland was far too short. Besides, they had other uses. Jon couldn't really climb, but Chataya's establishment came though, with its hidden doors on the roof which had allowed for a few quick escapes in the past.

So there he was, barely three months after nearly breaking his back beyond repair, a month after a corrupt gold cloak captain and his lackey went missing and a full decade after the death of Elia Martell, an assassin's cowl graced the skies of King's landing as its owner went to hunt for the mockingbird.


	25. Chapter 25: The hunt

The hunt

 _This was wrong. He wasn't ready yet. How could he…_ the jarring pain in his back as he landed roughly on his feet put an end to his self-deprecation. Gritting his teeth at the jolt of pain, he crouched down on all fours and peered over the edge, careful to stick to the shadows. There he was; visible from the window, that _little worm_. The silhouette stood in contrast to the room, helped by the candle placed on the desk. The narrow shoulders of the coin-counter bent over the desk, deep in thought as he bled the city dry with a quill.

He wished that he had brought his bow, it would be so easy to just, wait… he shifted an inch, barely noticeable but enough. The beard was wrong, and so was the shape. _One of his boy-whores, most likely. But why…_ The thought hit him with the force of a war-hammer and he froze in realization.

He increased his sight, trying his best to ignore the overwhelming stench of perfume and shit and his burning back as he searched for his allies. He could sense them; there was Mark, leaning against the brothel door and from what Ash could see in the garden at the back, Theo had found himself hired as a sell-sword by some fool who couldn't tell the difference between a clansman and an Ibbenese.

Had he failed in his aim and Baelish tried to escape from the front, Mark would gut him over an overpriced whore, if he tried to escape from the back, Theo would accuse him of trying to rob him and cut him down. If he tried to escape by the tunnels, well… there was Howland.

Yet, none had stirred. The mockingbird had nestled somewhere far too deeply and he didn't dare risk his allies by sending them into his territory. Well, if it the snake had tried to burrow too deep, all that was left was to smoke him out. But, there were people here. Brothel-patrons and drunkards, but still undeserving of death, accidental or otherwise. He wouldn't burn down a city to get to one man. He had to be better. His teachers expected that of him, so did his allies, and to an extent himself. Speaking of his allies… Ash squawked a warning and there was a moment of panic as he realised his mistake.

With the benefit of hindsight, he might have admired Baelish's low cunning against an unknown assailant. For now, he was too busy cursing the man for his actions and himself for his mistake. Mark was gone, drawn inwards by the workers who would otherwise find a wealthy sell-sword who did nothing but stand at the door. Theo was still visible, one sell-sword among many, _all_ _paid by Baelish._ He couldn't act without being murdered and Howland was being well… Howland. As he tried to think of a way to rescue Mark without being killed, he saw the wisps of smoke.

* * *

Years from now; the mystery behind the sudden fire in the Street of Silk would remain a mystery. Fat Septons would preach on and on about the Father's justice on wanton acts of debauchery before practising such acts in their own time. Jon Arryn would rant and fret, the spider would offer empty platitudes, Lords Renly and Stannis will jape and grit teeth respectively and King Robert would be drunk as three succeeding heads of the goldcloaks would be executed or sent to the watch for incompetence. If they had pressed the spider more firmly for information, they would have heard stories of a hooded figure on a roof leaping into the late Master of Coin's open window from across the roof. Some would say the figure carried a burning torch, a flaming sword, or even a jar of wildfire but no one would suggest something as mundane as a burning candle stick dropped on a bed of silk by a restrained Northman. It wouldn't be an interesting story. Details vary but in the end, the brothel was in flames and the streets would be awash in blood.

* * *

To Jon at the moment however, speculations of the far-off future weren't his concern. The boy-whore at the window was a gibbering moron clearly selected for his lack of wits and a passing resemblance to the target. Smoke was drifting below the door and judging from the noise on the other side, he had severely miscalculated the sheer number of people who visited such establishments. He found Mark downstairs; bruised, bloody and restrained by some guards led by a knight.

He felt anger and panic surge like fire through him, tempered with an ice-cold sense of awareness as he drew his blade. He wasn't sure what happened afterwards; only that it ended with the knight and guards dead and Mark with a gaping flesh wound. Theo had somehow joined them, staying behind as the sell-swords fled but where was Baelish? Ash _had_ marked the man, days before and no matter how unobtrusive he might believe himself, he could smell him. A coin-counter like him wouldn't take such a loss lightly and it was unlikely that he was trapped inside. What master could he try to slink off to?

On their own accord, his eyes moved towards the Red Keep and sure enough his bloody aura could be seen with fear clinging to the mockingbird as he rode off with a guard at his side. The fire was spreading and the panic with it, and Jon didn't dare give chase in his current state. Theo had dragged Mark off, through a series of alleys to Chataya's and any horse nearby had panicked and fled with the fire. The gold-cloaks would arrive as soon as the place was properly looted so he had a few minutes for himself. That was more than enough.

* * *

Jon was no poor warg, and he could say that even north of the wall he would be one of the better ones. Still, he had never used his abilities in such a way. He could feel the heat as it singed his feathers and he flew straight at the marked man. Ignoring the panicked crowds which slowed the horses down and were met with flailing hooves, he dove down and pecked right at the horse's eye.

The horse reared up and fell over, bringing Baelish with it. His guard tried to come to his aid, but Jon switched focus to the guard's horse and pushed his mind _slightly_ at it. With the smell of smoke in the air, the screams of half-a-hundred people and a raven with a mind far beyond the natural; the horse panicked and rode off, carrying his hapless rider with it.

Baelish didn't live to see it however, as the panic which had started in the fire had given way to rage as they spied the high-born worm who had ridden many of them over to save his own hide lying in a puddle of his piss. Rocks and cobblestones had found a way into many hands and Petyr Baelish died naked on the streets of King's Landing from half-a-hundred wounds and his head caved in.

* * *

Baelish opened his eyes, his breath catching as he winced at the memories of being bludgeoned. It was cold and bright and spots of light were dancing in the air and a distant buzzing could be heard. He looked down and saw what remained of his garments; once torn and flecked with blood and now clean and soft to the touch. He pressed his finger into one of the gashes on his chest, close to the old scar and withdrew it, blood clung to his finger and yet it was viscous, the wound felt painless, unnatural. _Was this the heavens?_

"In a way, you can call it that." He turned around and the scar on his chest throbbed painfully at the man in front of him. The spitting image of Stark , decades younger knelt before a corpse as he spoke. Curiosity won over his blind rage and he looked at the body, only to give way to horror as he saw that it was what remained of him. The _boy_ turned around and looked at him, face guarded as he held what appeared to be a small glass ball, barely larger than a bead in his grasp.

The ball glowed briefly and the light was snuffed out as the cavernous, seemingly endless white room that he was in gave way to a cavernous room of infinite blackness with flecks and lines of gold pulsating through the walls and the air.

"For what it's worth my lord, I'm truly sorry. Your death was meant to be quick, merciful, painless even. Nobody deserves to die the way you did but we can't always have what we want." It _must_ be some form of divine punishment, by uncaring gods either old or the new for daring to challenge his role in the world. Sending an emissary in the guise of the family that had haunted him for all his adult life. Still; even in death, he knew that he was better than the boy in front of him. At least now _he_ could tower over the savage.

" _Stark_ ", he spat out the name. "Have you come to gloat then?" Death had made him unusually brave. The boy blinked, looking surprised and a bit apprehensive at that. "You know of me, Lord Baelish?"

 _Does he intend to mock me?_ "I'm literally at the Stranger's door Stark. Get on with it and speak your piece. At least the company there would be better than yours." _Who need the Seven Hells? Any poor fool who had to bear the company of a Northerner must yearn for eternal damnation._

The boy stopped twice, working his jaw and not yet daring to speak. Comprehension seemed to dawn in his eyes for a moment as the boy turned and looked him straight in the eye. Suddenly it felt as though he had poured wildfire into his eyes as his mind screamed in protest against the intrusion and his old scar throbbed painfully. His life flashed over his eyes, memories of the fortune-teller meeting with his father, his journey to Riverrun, the witless Trout Edmure, Cat and Lysa, Brandon's arrival and… _wait, the boy isn't…_ the thought was wrenched away to give way to the duel at whose memory his scar felt like it was opening again, the night after with Hoster and under the effects of the poppy, he felt a vindictive sense of anticipation at the revelation which would come here as the little mongrel would see Lysa and… _wait, is that?…no,no,NO! THAT ISN'T HOW IT HAPPENED! IT WASN'T HER! THIIS IS WRONG! IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE CAT!_

If he had screamed in his actual body, he would be coughing blood. All it did was disorient the intruder, though the memories might have had more to do with it. Still, the damage was done. What remained of Baelish was huddled on the floor, whimpering as a boyin robes which he hadn't yet earned realised how _utterly_ he had failed in getting the final words of his victim. Neither one of them was aware, as an elegant figure materialised in front of them. Jon did however as the crying lessened and he looked up and saw his target fade to shimmering dust. Before he could react; his little key, the one he used to travel to this realm flew out of his hand into another's. The remains of Baelish, flew into the person's outstretched hand and into the key, shimmering gently as it seemed to feed the arcane device.

Words weren't spoken as the woman; the Crone, the Mother and the Maiden in one form looked at him gently and pressed the key back into his grasp. Words weren't necessary as she smiled and he _knew_ that Baelish would be there; his soul trapped in a state of limbo for him to with as he pleased. He was no monster, and would let it pass on once the last words were given.

Achilles, Connor, Haytham, even Giovanni and Evie would disapprove, but he knew that it wasn't enough. They would agree in the end. She had already saved his life once and had agreed to meet and work with them. For every hour he spent waking, he spent three dreaming and he had nearly two decades of lessons and yet he had failed _utterly_. If he was to be their instrument in this world, they had to agree to work together. After all, in the end if even a Goddess can learn humility, why can't they?


	26. Chapter 26: Aftermath

Aftermath

 **The Red Keep**

The Red Keep was in chaos. His grace; King Robert Baratheon was in one of his moods and had decided to throw another one of his lavish tourneys. His council reacted predictably; Jon Arryn fretted and pleaded but bowed to the Stag, Stannis grit his teeth, Barristan remained vigilant, Pycelle pondered, Varys simpered, Renly jested and Baelish did both. An hour later, Baelish was dead on the Street of Silk.

It was Lady Arryn of all people who discovered it, though for a long while it was difficult to determine her actual words amidst the wailing and gnashing of teeth. The implications however, especially seeing how his nearly naked and bloody body was discovered on the Street of Silk would have led to severe implications had tongues been allowed to wag. Though Jon Arryn would never admit it openly, even to himself, that it was owing to the chaos of the fire and riots that this news didn't spread far, in days to come he wouldn't wish it were any different. Whatever sordid affair led to Littlefinger's demise apparently died with him. Now if only Lysa could see that…

* * *

Littlefinger and his wife were childhood friends, nothing more than that or so Hoster claimed. His own wife was quite content to parrot her father's words, especially about her 'Dear Petyr.' How that phrase irked him now, especially with his wife's half-lucid confessions. He knew when he had wed that she was no maiden, but… the actions she confessed to under the influence of dream-wine were scandalous at the least and criminal at worst. Oh, he had heard the rumours, about Littlefinger's exploits with the Tully sisters. He had dismissed them as baseless accusations by petty nobility. Now, he wasn't so sure. He remembered his children, stillborn and with _dark_ hair, so unlike either parent. At night when he tried to remember their faces, he would be greeted by a flight of mockingbirds, sneering in tune with each other.

A replacement for Master of Coin was sought and found, then replaced, then replaced again as none could keep up with the king's prodigious appetite. After the fourth unsuitable appointee, he had thrown up his hands in despair and looked over the records which were left alongside Lord Stannis, the only reliable man in the council. Once he was done, he wished to bring back Littlefinger from the dead, just to execute the man himself.

The crown was haemorrhaging gold. It was diverted and bled away through a convoluted maze to a dozen different pockets and funds, and he had a good idea where they all linked to. Beneath lock-and-key in the tower of the hand were kept records which held evidence to half-a dozen different crimes against the crown and half-a-dozen more for whom names and terms had yet to be invented. Yet one thing was certain, such crimes would not go unpunished.

* * *

In all of living memory, he couldn't remember another instant when he saw Lord Stannis smile other than when Littlefinger's brothels were gutted for everything of value that remained and sold-off to prospective buyers (he _might_ have been less happy had he knew that the main buyer was a proprietor by the name of Chataya, but there was no need to share such unpleasantness). When the news of the treachery was delivered to a drunken Robert, he roared for Littlefinger before remembering his death and not being a man to waste his wine, he then raised a toast to the ones who committed the deed. Before his mood could settle, Jon had pushed a decree forward to attaint Baelish's holdings and the king in his eagerness almost hammered his quill through the paper. With no time to lose before looters finished stripping the place clean and with an army of workers, they had reduced the most tastefully furnished structures in the city to bare walls, selling off everything of value much to the chagrin of the patrons and workers alike. Once they were dealt with, the land was sold off. In a city like king's landing, open land was worth a lord's ransom.

He had been sorely tempted to keep a plot of land and convert it to a gilded-prison for his traitorous and addled wife, but his sense of duty spoke against it. It was his pride however, and the idea of it becoming common knowledge that convinced him, however. Lysa would have her due, later.

 **The Nexus and the fallen temple**

Once; they were the domains of the goddess of wisdom, later they served as her prison. Now; she revisited them in chains, surrounded by constructs bearing the memories of men and women who would like nothing more than to obliterate her, though admittedly with good reason.

A few millennia ago, she would have bothered with pride, to flaunt her magnificence to those she considered her thralls, like that foolish Dayne boy but now she was just too tired. Time and again, whenever their children came close to understanding them, time and again fate seemed determined to punish them both for trying to do so. Either this would be her end or she would be granted a last hope at redemption. Both were tempting.

There _was_ a precedent to this, with the one they called the storyteller; Clay Kaczmarek leading them. After all, he was the lynchpin with the fall of the prophet. Followed by Ratonhnhaké:ton; that sweet summer child who was the boy's father in all but name, Haytham and Achilles; bitter enemies now united in the act of raising a grandson, Ezio the master-assassin; now relegated to play the wise and entertaining uncle and the Fryes; Evie the wise elder-sister and Jacob, the annoying younger one in mind, if not in body.

Legends separated through time and sides now united in a forced family. Touching.

"Speak." That was the storyteller, or as he liked to forget, Subject 16. Had he been seen by humanity in the past age, he might have been mistaken for one of her own kind. That was hopeful.

Choosing her words carefully, she decided to let chance intervene and spoke honestly, "I surrender."

The storyteller was the weaver of fate, the one who came closest to possessing true knowledge of the future since the failed inheritors of this world. It wasn't reassuring when such a phrase seemed to shock him speechless. It wasn't him who continued however…

"Keep talking." That was Ratonhnhaké:ton. _He almost sounded like Edward._

"I'm done. Since the time before the cataclysm, it was my duty to secure the survival of my race _and_ to control yours. I have failed in both measures. I'm done with it. Kill me, keep me as a prisoner, do what you wish." " _Gladly_ ", a shot rang out from _Haytham_ of all people, who looked as surprised as her, though probably not for the same reasons.

It was Ezio. The jolly, calm, paternal, kind-eyed Ezio had somehow outrun the pistol shot and was holding it suspended in mid-air. "You are not the only one who makes decisions, _little eagle._ This is not the time for rash decisions. Let us hear her out." The voice was of a wise and patient teacher, but Haytham would be one of the last people to be fooled by it. Even if it weren't the case, he was outnumbered.

Achilles, of all people was the one whom he might be able to count as an ally, judging from the look of loathing he directed toward her. Between the Fryes; Evie was restrained, her curiosity battling her instincts while Jacob was no better than a mad-dog ready to be let off the leash. Connor _was_ conflicted. He couldn't truly blame him. _If only Shay were here._

The storyteller, ( _his name is Clay)_ had proceeded to stop any fight before it began. After a few millennia, he had gotten quite good at it. With a snap of his fingers, they were seated on a raised half-circle dais, while Juno stood at its center, unbound and yet restrained. She didn't seem to mind, as she seemed almost _disappointed_ that Haytham was blocked.

" _Signora,_ why?" "I do not understand." "That is surprising. You are Juno, the last of the ones who came before, no? The closest we have to a goddess of wisdom. Why surrender?" Juno smiled. _Ezio was a fighter at heart, but Sofia has been a good influence for him._

"I'm done, Mentor. Once I viewed your people with revulsion, quite similar to how you might view an insect. But _my_ people were reduced to a shadow of our self with the cataclysm. How many of these have your race survived? Two? Three? When my race fought yours, you fought with rocks and what we threw away. Then you _thrived_ in our absence. I planned for millennia to create a _prophet_ who would herald my coming and usher my return. Thanks to _you… "_ she glared at Clay " …it didn't come to pass. We _both_ lost in the second cataclysm. At the time of the third, this _Long Night_ , when you had regressed further than I could have imagined, I was ready to see you finally wither and fall. You _survived_ , but barely."

"Not without losses, no." That was Ezio. The prophet had hundreds of lifetimes locked in his blood-line. The observatory had thousands. Nine out of ten were lost in the long night. Beneath the grounds of Monterrigioni, there are halls dedicated to them, each bearing a statue and a name. The first Brandon had travelled these in his dreams and tried to bring them to life. The crypts of Winterfell are a mere shadow compared to them.

"I know. But, they sacrificed themselves, to make sure that you would survive. Even now, nearly eight thousand years later, even this far south I can feel them burning on the wall." An unconscious shudder passed through them at remembering the monstrosity which guarded the North.

"My race was tested and failed. Yours succeeded, time and time again. You ask me _why_ mentor? It is because I am tired. I am tired of losing. Your species had shown promise, but every time you succeed, you end up disappointing me. Either let me be an ally or let me die, but don't let me be an observer."

"How exactly do you plan to _help_ us?"

"Jon Snow. He shows promise. I crossed two kingdoms to meet and help the boy. I promised to do so, in exchange for him letting me meet you."

" _Absolutely not!_ " that was Haytham, erupting at the suggestion. "Your kind has used us as puppets for your own benefits and have already burned the world once. How can we trust your judgement in deciding what's best for him?" The irony of the statement wasn't lost on her alone, judging by the looks on the other's faces, though it didn't look like they would bother correcting him and on and on and on it want.

They weren't talking in circles instead their conversations took on a wide myriad of possible other shapes. Calm and civilised, rushed and angry, a few gestures of violence, in expressions as much as in words, what was once between a handful grew exponentially, with numbers increasing by tens, and eventually near a hundred. She wasn't present near the end though, having somehow being escorted into a cell; an undulating sea of white stretching without end on all horizons. People didn't walk in here they _appeared,_ as Clay just did. His expression said it all.

"So, they refused then." They both knew that it wasn't really a question. Curiously enough he seemed completely without anger or fear in her presence, though judging by his title, one with actual meaning in it, he might just be her only equal. "Could you honestly have expected anything else?"

"No." A bitter truth, one she knew quite early but bitter all the same. "So, what now?" "They won't kill you. Not out of altruism of course. Your stunt in Dorne and the mess you left behind have made a lot of people _very_ angry. Atep for all purposes is untouchable and the monsters he has spawned there would have been a nightmare by itself without considering the nightmares up north. So, if you want to help Juno, if you want to prove yourself trustworthy, start by proving yourself useful."

"Very well. I will."

 **Chataya's**

"I have failed." They were bitter words, but ones that needed to be said. Jon was in what seemed to be a meditation room, his head bowed as the little glass sphere that had flattened and imbedded itself inside of him burned hot in his core as he clenched his hands in a way which could be mistaken by any observer as an act of prayer.

" _Who prays in a brothel anyway?" "Not now, Frye! This doesn't concern you, so bugger off unless you want me to shove this gun up your… " "Haytham! Your pet dog is rabid!" "Shay is Irish, Jacob. Not a dog. Do learn to tell the difference, as difficult as it is with your sister having all of yours as well as hers." "Really, do you think you're the first prick to make the idiot sibling joke? She might be the brains but I'm the one with the balls." "Keep talking_ _ **boy**_ and that would change very soon. _"_

 _I really hate you Jacob._ Those thoughts came out unexpectedly, though it was clear that it wasn't unheard, and judging from how Jacob regained consciousness an hour later tied up on a river barge, Haytham was quick and quite grateful to exploit the distraction offered.

" _Now that this unpleasantness has been dealt with, let's get back on topic. Yes Jon, how exactly did you fail?" The assassination; it wasn't quick, or painless. I saw Baelish get stabbed to death by a mob. What was left of his mind is… broken. So were his last words. They were mangled somehow. The attempt started a fire somehow, and I can't even begin to count how many died._

" _Don't." What? "Don't count. That's a path to madness. Also, guided by nothing more than the voices in your head, you successfully killed one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms. I would call it a success." But I didn't kill him. The mob did. "If you throw a man off a cliff, you can't claim innocence by blaming his death on the long fall or the sudden stop at the end. Similarly, you can accept the credit for this death. I have seen far sloppier attempts in far more favourable situations. As for Baelish's confession; I'm not an assassin, to my father's enduring shame. So I don't hold much to the practices of last words to the dying. Far better men than him have been granted much less at their end. I certainly won't shed any tears for the mockingbird. "_

" _I see. Thank you." "For what?" "For listening, Master Kenway." "Master Kenway is my father, Jon. He would much rather have the family name passed down to Connor and all who called me such have been long gone. Call me Haytham." "As you wish, Haytham."_

* * *

There were other such conversations, with similar regrets shared and platitudes offered. Yet the words all said the same; his deed was… acceptable, for a beginner. What was left unsaid was the necessity of improvement and caution, not that it needed to be. From the moment he had made his first mistake, a part of his mind had started planning how to do improve upon it.

Still, that didn't make avoiding the mistakes he knew any easier. After all, no matter how accepting they might be, he had some idea about the monsters the world, his and theirs could create. There were _other_ minds along with Juno who had wormed their way into his. Whether they were parasites latching onto a suitable host or a plague, exploiting an easy means of spreading it was not known. Not even by Juno.

Once they were men, then they held a tool of the gods for too long and as it imprinted on their minds, so did a piece of them, the worst of them imprint on these objects. These _souls_ were without a higher purpose, a fragment of what the person once was, and yet they held some inkling of their former selves. Why else would they bear names? Why else would they be content to be bound in the illusions of places which resembled what they once called home?

In the very depths of Jon's mind; hidden in the recreations of the caverns under Davenport, under the catacombs of Monterrigioni and the temple under Masyaf, even in the back-alleys and tunnels of London they stirred, bound and asleep. The shades with their dreaded names: Ranatakáriias, Cristoforo, Temujin and the Ripper and many more names which hopefully would be never uttered again.


	27. Chapter 27: Memories from the past

Memories from the past

 **Gerold Dayne**

 _Dawn looked beautiful._ Gerold was barely more than a toddler, a child of five when he first laid eyes on the legendary blade. His _cousin,_ the anointed kingsguard Ser Arthur Dayne had visited the home of the offshoot Daynes for some reason and had had a long conversation with his father; the late and unlamented lord of High Hermitage. They must have talked for hours, but to Gerold, it had seemed like mere moments as he sat in his father's solar and gazed at the blade as it called out to him.

 _One day, I will have that blade._ He promised himself, picturing a duel worthy of legend to claim that blade. A tap on the shoulder and some ruffled hair from Ser Arthur as he picked up the blade and walked away was as close as he ever came to that duel.

That night, and for every night that week, he _had_ to be lulled to sleep with tales of the previous Swords of the morning. Every night, he promised himself that he would have that blade. Every morning after, he would head to the training yards and in the words of their own master-at-arms, "hit with the ferocity of a boy twice his age". _One day_ , he promised himself.

* * *

Then the rebellion began, news came about Ser Arthur's actions and his capture. From his father, he heard tales about how the Lord of Starfall wept and raged at his brother's actions. Gerold was confident in the belief that the disgraced wielder of dawn would be stripped of his titles. Then the news came; for the first time since Davos Dayne, Dawn would be taken to the Wall.

Gerold didn't weep like his soft cousin, or his own fool of a father. He raged silently and plotted. Within a week, High Hermitage had a new lord.

 _It is only right after all. Father had promised me Dawn if I was worthy. He failed, so this would have to be an adequate recompense._ That's what he told himself, but the want for Dawn burned in his mind.

* * *

Sleep didn't come easily to him. The world had grown duller; there were no battles to fight in, lords avoided a duel with him like the plague and the smallfolk, they had grown quite skilful at escaping his sight as though they could instinctively sense his wroth. To his chagrin however, they had demonstrated their wits by running off to his cousin when he had killed a few of them for upsetting him.

The end results were two dozen guards and half-a-hundred men-at-arms had marched to High Hermitage under the command of his cousin. Nothing much was said, and even less spoken aloud but the end result was that for all intents, he was to be a prisoner in his own home.

He spent his days, battering at his furnishings with a spoon, as even a knife was denied to him even for dining. Within a week, he had grown utterly sick of the sight of stew and was contemplating on how to murder the guards with his chamber pot. A failed attempt there left him with a broken jaw and another month of spoon-fed stews. By the end, he had contemplated jumping into the chasm running beneath the older crypts. Never the type to leave things to contemplation, as the guards changed hands; he set fire to his rooms and the keep in contempt and marched down to the crypts with his father's long rotted skull in his grasp.

When his fool of a cousin was done playing the hero, and realised that he was missing, they instead started sending out search parties. Annoyed at their witlessness, he had almost resorted to shouting at them to find him down there. After an hour or two of listening to rats scampering above, he grew tired and started to throw some loose rocks at the roof of the crypt. Sound travelled well apparently as the footsteps above went very quiet.

It only took another minute or two before they found him there, perched on a rock with his father's skull in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He had contemplated drinking the wine _from_ the skull, but the rot inside would have ruined it. He rose up slowly, savouring in their looks of revulsion at his visage, drawing his sword to cut down as many of these fools who dared to duel with Darkstar.

* * *

He would have sealed his name in infamy then and there, had it not been for the fact that the guards had crossbows, and seeing a drunken murderer advance towards their liege lord, the men had no compunctions about letting loose.

What happened next varied from person to person; the simplest stories say that they filled him with quarrels and he fell off the chasm to his death, a story which fits the maester's needs. A more common story claims that Gerold wore armour, and would have slain his kin had it not been for a fortunate shot which shattered his bottle and half blinded with sour wine. In drunken rage, he had charged at his cousin, who didn't even draw his blade and instead just pushed him away, albeit a bit too hard. His cousin was never named kin-slayer from all who heard this story for clearly that was never his intention; they only lamented his luck in having a blood-crazed oaf for a kin.

The _third_ story however, had found its way to both septas and taverns alike, but in two varying forms. In both, the crossbows mortally wounded but didn't kill him because of his armour, after that however, they diverge. The septas say of how the gods were so disgusted by his actions and wishing to spare his good and noble cousin the taint of a kinslayer, brought down the roof of the crypts upon his head and cast him down to the pits of hell. The tavern men however, spread the more ribald tale of how a chunk of masonry, knocked loose by his continuous act of hammering at the crypt's roof hit him on the head at the most inopportune time and left him dazed and stumbling into the chasm.

For a bit of surreal dark humour, it was his father's skull that he tripped over in his daze which did the deed. A lot of playwrights in Braavos tend to accompany this with an image of the skull resting on the edge and leering down at his ungrateful son's fall.

Whatever the version, it is believed Dorne has had it's full of Gerold Dayne.

 **Daemon Sand and Eddard Stark**

Ned rose to follow Lyanna as she ran from his badly regretted words, only to be stopped by the cowled man. "Out of my way Ser." "I am no knight, lord Eddard and I would thank you to avoid mistaking me as one." "The only one who is mistaken here is you, _Osiris_. Make no mistake; I am truly grateful for what you have done to save my sister. I truly am. But she is a Stark of Winterfell, she deserves better than to live her life hiding in Dorne. So, get out of my way and let me pass."

The man smiled lightly at that, pulling at his sleeves and displaying the blade resting lightly in his grip; plain, unassuming and deadly. "Make no mistake Lord Eddard; I am a weary man, with nothing on me but the clothes on my back and this knife in my hand. You on the other hand, are clad in armour and wield a Valyrian blade. So, I can say with absolute certainty that before you are done reaching for it, I could have killed you a dozen times over. So before either one of us does anything that we would regret, let us sit down and talk."

It took him all of his self-control to avoid lashing at the man, partly because he knew that what he said was true. He was tense under the armour and Ice was meant for executions more than battle. Without his helm and plate, that knife would be deadlier in close quarters than anything he owned. The man took his acquiescence as a sign to continue and kept speaking.

"I have no doubt, that your sister has had her share of wrongs to atone for, and while it may not seem so right now, that is her intent. If fortunes are good, she would have a lifetime to accomplish that. Many of my… associates have joined our ranks for this very purpose. However, that isn't what I wanted to discuss, what I wanted to talk about are the mistakes of the Lord of Winterfell."

Eddard started to get up but the man made a calming gesture and continued on, "I wasn't referring to you Lord Eddard, I meant your predecessor, Rickard Stark. There is a lot to discuss about the machinations of the late Lord Rickard and it is unlikely that we would see each other in the future so let me tell you in its entirety, about the web woven by the great lords of the Seven kingdoms against a mad dragon."

* * *

 _By the gods, I want a drink._ Eddard thought to himself after half an hour of conversation. He had marched outside and feeling the cool night air had helped to soothe him after feeling the blood burning in his veins from the revelations. Hearing about his father's machinations, the reason why some of the lords seemed to resent his wife, the reason for _the bloody war,_ he knew that if he were to utter the words in the conversation aloud to the wrong company, it would mean his death.

As for Lyanna, whether at the hands of Tywin, everyone who lost kin in the war or even Robert himself, if she were to return, she would die. He couldn't do anything to help her, and that knowledge was killing him. As for the baby however, that was something that both he and Daemon agreed upon. He didn't dare imagine what Lyanna would do to the man if she ever found out that he was the one who suggested separating them in the first place.

The ruminations would have to wait however; he had spent far too long doing nothing and Lyanna had found him. After this conversation, he would have to stop playing the role of an elder brother and learn to be an uncle.

 **Qebui and lily**

The girl was shivering, with nothing to cover her except a ragged cloak that reached past her knees. Qebui looked her over; a thin bony little thing with bloody knees and dog bites on her arms and legs. Even with a bowl of warm stew and half a mug of ale in her, she wouldn't stop shivering, though she couldn't be blamed for that. After all, not many people survived the Bastard of Bolton.

The name felt like a knife through her bowels, and she couldn't help but imagine that once she was done with this, whether all Snows in the North will be tarred with the same brush as that one. _You are the last person who should be concerned with that. Eddard is a far better parent than you would have been and right now, there is a little girl who is relying on us to survive._ Her voice of reason sounding oddly like both Osiris and Ned berated her and she looked back at the little one who sat at the side of the bed, clutching the edge as though she were afraid that she might fall through the floor.

Lyanna approached her gently, and as she sat at her side and grasped her hand, the little girl ( **Lily** ; that was her name) shuddered and burst into tears. Lyanna let the girl lean on her, grateful for the discretions on part of the inn-keeper as Lily told her everything that happened, starting with how the Bastard murdered her family and took her and ending with Qebui killing the dog that was worrying on her leg and driving off the rest. At the end, the girl fell asleep still twitching with nightmares that Qebui didn't want to contemplate and for a moment, a shameful part of her considered adding a bit more shade of the evening to her cup and put her out of her misery. She burned in shame at the thought, remembering her mentor's words and to distract herself, she picked up the little hardened nugget of Weirwood sap gifted to her by the woods-witch and started to fashion it into something worth wearing.

* * *

It had been over a year since she had met Lily in that desolate wood. Now the north was aflame. After endless arguments with Ned through Smoke, listening to the chatter of a dozen petty nobles, a _real_ response was finally made by the Lord of Winterfell. At first, the Lord of Leeches reacted as she had expected him to, after the deaths she had dealt to his men-at-arms in secret and driving Ramsay to frothing madness, the lord had finally had enough of him. However, instead of washing his hands clean of him and giving him up as she had expected, instead he had risen in rebellion.

In hindsight it made sense; Ramsay was the living proof to the man's own crimes and while he might be a mad dog, the Lord of the Dreadfort wasn't one to do anything by half-measures and while the Lord of Winterfell might have come for some answers and a head, the fact that it needed to be attached to a body wasn't forgotten. He _might_ have expected some reluctance on behalf of the other lords to attack one of their own, or that the men were far too tired to deal with two consecutive rebellions in short order or that even some of the lords like the Ryswells and Dustins might support their kin.

Those hopes didn't amount to much; everywhere in the North, the loyalty to Ned Stark unbreakable, even amongst the Ryswells and Dustins. The men were tired and the lords mostly indifferent to the plights of the smallfolk, so stories were spread with almost no exaggerations on regards to brutality about the deeds of Ramsay Snow. Outrage spread among the smallfolk about "Bolton's pet monster" and when the banners were called, no lord dared look anything other than eager to stain their blades with Bolton blood. She could say with some measure of satisfaction that at least half of them were quite sincere about it.

* * *

Ramsay Snow died, but his last words were not the defiant words of a monster at his end but the cries of a dying man calling out for his mother. She had long since imagined how she would enjoy his kill, as much as she knew that it went against her lessons, she believed that she should be allowed to enjoy this. She was wrong. Nobody cheered in celebration, there was no joyous proclamation at the death of the monster. There was just a very bloody alleyway with two living people and nine dead ones. The sellsword was grinning as she made it abundantly clear that the bounties were his to collect, provided that he could keep his mouth shut about seeing a cowled figure disembowelling the Bastard of Bolton. She knew his type, there was an air of certainty to the man and if it meant that he was paid well, he would follow her demands to the letter. Besides, sellswords were known to be boastful and it was unlucky that they would admit to be rescued by _a slip of a girl_. She was rather more concerned about how she would explain this to Ned, but when the time came, it couldn't be any worse than the last time she had met him.

Now, when all was said and done there was no real happy ending here. The lands north of the Hornwood and south of the last river, from the white knife to the shivering sea were ashes. There were _so many deaths_ ; that once the wolves of the woods that hunted in their dozens had given way to the blighted creatures called the wolves of the battlefield which fed on the dead in hundreds and all who saw them waited with bated breath with what would happen once the dead had grown scarce.

Lily had died, like so many others, she was another that weighed on her soul. Her leg which had been savaged by the dog had never healed properly. Even after a maester's treatment in white harbor, the leg would often remain inflamed and all it took was a few cold and rainy days for her to catch a chill and she died soon after. Qebui found a small unmarked graveyard next to a weirwood tree on the road where there had once been an inn with a discrete innkeeper, now one of many who died in the war. She had her buried deep, covered in a thick cloth to prevent the wolves from digging her out. Atop her body laid the cloak, the one she had been gifted with once she had finished as an acolyte and gained her blades and the one which she willingly gave away to protect the modesty of the little girl she had once met in the woods.


End file.
